


A Prayer You Can Borrow

by Galleywinter



Series: The Winds of Change [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:04:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galleywinter/pseuds/Galleywinter
Summary: Varian Wrynn survives the Broken Shore. For one paladin, that changes absolutely everything. WIP





	1. Chapter 1

Finding King Varian on the Broken Shore is easier than they all initially anticipate: it's simply a matter of following the trail of demon bodies. He stands with a retinue of Stormwind guards, their once-gleaming silver armor now tarnished, scorched, and smeared with ichor, holding the bottleneck, cutting the demons down before they can flow to the beach.

There is something about him she’s never seen before: something savage and wild and utterly _beautiful_ in its ferocity.

They’ve fought together before, briefly and infrequently, but he’d always been contained then. Surgically precise with each swing of his greatsword. But now....now he stands on the Broken Shore, all trappings of a king shed, and he is _brutal_. Untamed. With a heaving cleave of his twin blades he decapitates a demon and, as it falls, she realizes that she isn’t fighting beside her king. She is fighting beside _Lo’Gosh_.

_The stories are true._

Their small warband regroups, Lady Jaina and King Greymane moving to the head to watch for incoming attacks so the rest of them can catch their breaths.

King Varian takes up the rear position, and Camdyn moves to his side, unclipping a water skein from her belt. “Majesty,” she murmurs as she holds it out to him.

He takes it from her with a grateful nod and something that sounds like a sigh. His grasp had been delicate, but the greedy gulps he takes belie how thirsty he truly must have been. “It’s good to see you, Camdyn,” he says, voice hoarse and deep as he hands the skein back. “But I’m not your king. Not anymore. That title belongs to my son now.”

She isn’t sure which to protest first: that the skein he’d handed her back is still half full or that he will be her king as long as there is breath in her lungs.

Before she has a chance to even gather her thoughts, a meteoric blast of felfire ignites the ground at the trailhead.

“To Jaina!” King Varian bellows beside her, already charging down the hill.

Without a moment’s hesitation she follows behind, reaching to loosen her hammer from her baldric as she does. The weight is comforting in her hands, the balance perfect, the heft and swing what she counts her breaths by.

She relies on the familiarity of it all, refusing to focus on her king at her side. Refusing to focus on the sheer overwhelming numbers of the demon horde.

They fight through waves of them, until it feels the ground beneath her feet is more demon blood than it is solid stone; they fight through Gul’dan summoning countless more, through the bittersweet realization that this is truly a suicide mission. She won’t be coming home to her brother, but she _will_ be stopping the Legion at Azeroth’s doorstep. She’ll be giving everyone else a fighting chance to _live_ , to actually stop the Legion once and for all.

But through it all, she stands fast, relying on her faith in the Light. Relying on her faith in her king.

All of that changes when Sylvanas abandons them to die, to save her own skin.

Righteous anger burns in Camdyn’s veins as King Varian calls the retreat. They were so close to decimating the Legion’s foothold, and Sylvanas’s cowardice had cost them that opportunity and left good people to be slaughtered.

She barrels for the gunship as it pulls in close. This is a fight they have no hope of winning. Not anymore.

Camdyn turns as she scrambles onto the deck, and her heart hammers in the back of her mouth. King Varian had been the last to leave the battlefield, and he now dangles from the rope ladder, swaying dangerously as the gunship banks hard to port, the behemoth below him laboring itself up and out of the ground.

There’s a shivering sound, akin to stone sliding against stone, and she realizes it’s going to take them down if they don’t stop it. She’s loved her king for more years than she cares to remember, and her first instinct is to dive after him, but _all_ of them surviving depends on her denying that base instinct.

The gunship continues its bank, the deck beginning to list dangerously beneath them and she refuses to contemplate the potential costs of her next action because if she does, she might not follow it through and she _needs_ to follow it through. The fate of Azeroth depends on it.

“Paladins!” Camdyn barks as she clamps a hand around the railing for stability. “Consecrate the perimeter! _Now_!” The few of them that are left - and there’s a throbbing _ache_ in her chest at how few it truly is - spread across the deck of the gunship on her word, the sound of their boots pounding across the planks drowned out by the thunderous rumble of tumbling rocks and the sharp cracking of stone.

Next to her, King Greymane is leaning over the railing, reaching for King Varian to haul him up. It takes every ounce of her will to ignore them both; she can’t afford to lose her focus.

The Light flows through her, through them all, warm and _alive_ , her skin tingling with potential and promise as her lips move in silent prayer and benediction. The fel reaver’s giant arm swings in the direction of the gunship, attempting to crash through the decks and drag them back, but the gunship lists just out of its grasp, its fingers crushing uselessly around empty air before they leave it behind entirely. The gunship begins to level, and her vision is golden and _pure_ and her breath catches in her throat at the sight of Varian’s head, limned in golden light, clearing the edge of the deck. King Greymane hauls him the rest of the way aboard, and for the first time since Sylvanas abandoned them, the knot in Camdyn’s sternum loosens and she feels she can truly _breathe_.

The prayer dies on her lips when, after he’s gained his footing, he looks around to take in the motley crew of survivors and his eyes meet hers. The hand he’d had clamped in thanks around King Greymane’s bicep reaches for her now, cups her elbow briefly before falling away. “Thank you,” he says with a nod and the barest quirk of his lips. “That was quick thinking.”

Her tongue is like lead and her mouth is dry, but she manages to form a response. Somehow. "Majesty," she responds with a dip of her chin before turning on her heel and giving her attention to a wounded soldier. By the Light, there are a lot of them.

Camdyn can’t help the glance she sneaks over her shoulder as she helps a dwarf to his feet, her lips already moving in a prayer of healing. Varian is with King Greymane again, heads close together in discussion, and just the sight of him, battered and bloody but blessedly _alive_ , is enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Camdyn exits the captain’s cabin, carefully closing the door behind her in an attempt to be respectful of the meeting still going on inside. Her head is reeling and the deck feels strangely unsteady beneath her feet. The last thing she had ever expected was to be included in a war council with the kings of Gilneas, Gnomeregon, and Stormwind and the leader of the Kirin Tor. She’s _no one_. A simple paladin. But as her eyes adjust to the darkening sky and her gaze skims over the thin numbers on the main deck of the ship, it’s sharply punctuated that she _is_ the highest ranking paladin to have survived the Broken Shore.

Tiron Fordring is dead. She had seen him die, had been forced to watch it happen, completely powerless to stop it. The guilt and the pain tangle together, ripping and clawing their way up her belly and into her throat until she feels like she’s choking on them. It's a horrible pain, but also horrifyingly familiar. She had felt it when she watched Bolvar Fordragon sacrifice himself for the good of Azeroth at the top of Icecrown Citadel.

Too many of her heroes are dying.

Camdyn swallows back against the bile rising in her throat at the thought, and the ache behind her ribs that accompanies it and crosses to the port railing of the gunship, leaning on it and watching out over the side as clouds slide around it like cresting waves. The sun is setting in a gloriously serene watercolor wash of oranges and pinks across a horizon that doesn't show any of the scars of war, and the longer she looks at it, the more her sense of disorientation grows until none of it seems real. Not the relentless tide of demons Gul’dan had summoned, not the crushing losses they’d suffered even before the Horde forces had deserted them. Not the fact that her king has abdicated and that she’s being looked to for guidance by the Alliance’s most powerful leaders.

She can't understand it. Not any of it. Her head is swimming and her heart is breaking, and her bones ache and she just.... can't.

Camdyn hears the soft tread of feet on the deck; someone's come up looking for her, but she's so tired she can’t bring herself to react.

“Paladin.” It’s a calm voice, too serene in the way that most night elves speak. Camdyn takes a quick, bracing breath before turning to see what the elf needs. It pulls her up short when she realizes the elf is simply standing there, watching her, with two tankards in hand. ”We found some undamaged casks in the hold.” The elf gestures delicately with the tankards, and Camdyn can smell the yeasty bitterness of ale. “Should you desire more, we brought the casks to the main deck and set them up to stern.” She pauses. "There are many who are toasting the dead tonight."

With a dip of her chin and a murmur of thanks, Camdyn takes the tankard the night elf holds out to her. The elf’s answering grin doesn’t reach her eyes, and then she slips away again.

The tankard is heavy in Camdyn’s hands as she brings it to her mouth. The ale is cold against her lips and the malt is heady on her tongue, and she’s immensely grateful to both whoever it was who found the casks and to the mages who enchanted the tankards. It lets them all toast their dead.

It lets them all, for a moment, forget.

The sun has long set and Camdyn’s gone through two additional tankards of ale when the door of the captain’s cabin swings open, light flooding across the deck. King Greymane steps out first, followed closely by High General Varian. Camdyn frowns into her ale before taking another long pull of it, draining the last dregs. His abdication rubs against her uncomfortably, like crushed velvet brushed the wrong way. She trusts him implicitly as her king and knowing he’ll still be leading the military forces is a comfort, but it still feels _wrong_.

As the king and the general begin to make their way around the perimeter of the ship - talking to clusters of soldiers, checking on those still wounded - Camdyn moves counter to them, making her way to the stern of the ship. She stops long enough to refill her ale before proceeding up the ladder to the poop deck. It’s quieter here: most everyone is down below on the main deck or even further down in the crew quarters.

Normally, she’d be down there with them, laughing, celebrating that they’d made it out alive. Mourning the dead and honoring their sacrifice. But tonight feels _different_. The losses have been too great, almost too heavy to bear. Cradling her tankard between her palms, she tries to count the stars dotting the darkness of the sky. Lets the mental fuzziness from three ales help dull the ache. 

Tomorrow, she’ll start processing. For now she just wants to forget.

She doesn’t know how long she hides - time stopped meaning much once she’d had enough ale that her teeth began to tingle and the bruise on her cheekbone didn’t anymore - but it’s long enough that her ale is mostly empty again. Somewhere in the back of her brain, she attempts to calculate if she’s sober enough to climb down the ladder for a refill. It’s quiet up here. Peaceful almost. Up here, she can almost fool herself into believing that the whole engagement on the Broken Shore had been nothing more than a nightmare instead of terrifying reality, and she’s reluctant to leave her small sanctuary, even with every intention of coming back.

“Paladin.” The deep voice is unexpected and sudden and makes her jump, and it’s only the fact that her ale is almost empty that keeps any of it from sloshing over the rim of her tankard. She jerks her head around to the ladder. “Might I join you?”

It's _him_. She's adored him from a distance for _so long_ , and he's so _handsome_ , standing there at the top of the ladder watching her, waiting for her answer, the darkness and flickering lamplight throwing his already sharp features into even sharper relief. The contact between them has only ever been warmly professional - nothing more than a devoted paladin and her king - but that hasn’t kept her from _wishing_ , and him specifically searching her out has been a prime feature in her fantasies for at least a decade, and he's actually _here_.

A heady giggle bubbles up in her throat, and she forces it back down with another swallow of ale. “Of course, General,” she answers with a smile, her voice as loose and warm as her limbs feel. Something niggles in the back of her brain, says that if she were more sober, she would be mortified. She does giggle then precisely because she _isn’t_ sober. If she were sober, she would have ducked away as soon as he’d climbed the ladder. She wouldn’t be here. And, as he dips his chin in acknowledgement of her reply and crosses the space between them in long, slow strides, here is _exactly_ where she wants to be.

He leans next to her on the railing, all lazy grace and restrained power, and there’s a muted ferocity still burning in his eyes that Camdyn can see even in the moonlight. Camdyn feels like she's lighter than air, that her armor is the only thing anchoring her to the gunship's deck; her head is swimming and her tongue is tingly and a little numb, and he’s standing _so close_.

He's close enough she can smell the sweat of battle and salt of ocean spray still clinging to him, and there’s something absolutely _primal_ about Varian Wrynn that goes to her head every bit as much as the ale has. He’s close enough for her to notice the exhaustion buried under his ferocity. For her to see the weariness hangs heavily off of him despite his persistent battle-ready tension, as if he's personally carrying the responsibility for the lives lost on the Broken Shore and the lives they're all fighting to protect beyond it.

She means for the hand she lays against the back of his broad shoulder to be comforting, a gesture of solidarity. Maybe the ale makes her touch too heavy or too lingering, and it's _definitely_ making her too familiar, because she has no right to touch her king like this. But alcohol and heartache and exhaustion make her bold, and she keeps her hand where it is.

As soon as her gauntlet touches his mail, he turns to her. For a fraction of an instant, something lost and broken flickers behind his eyes, and for the third time since storming the Broken Shore, Camdyn's heart breaks.

Before she can think of how many rules she’s breaking, before she can think of all the reasons she _shouldn’t_ , she's leaning in and up and pressing her lips to the corner of his. It’s only a kiss in the most academic of terms, only lasts a fraction of a heartbeat - just long enough to feel the prickle of whiskers and the barest hint of the fullness of his lower lip at the edge of her own mouth - before she realizes what she’s done.

Camdyn jerks back from him and attempts to clap her hand over her mouth in horror. Varian’s fingers catch her wrist mid-air, and a fresh bolt of adrenaline shoots through her before she belatedly realizes that he’s just stopped her from beating herself in the mouth with the gauntlets she’s still wearing. He’s frowning at her and she can’t blame him and it feels like her mouth’s been stuffed with cotton and so’s her brain because _she just kissed her king_.

Ale and shock make her wobbly as she takes two large steps back as soon as he releases her. Her lips tingle and her lungs are iron and she can’t even blink. All she can do is stare at him wide-eyed and unbreathing. “I’m... I’m so sorry, your Majesty,” she manages around a tongue that feels like lead and a voice that refuses to work properly. “That wasn’t...I shouldn’t....” She desperately _wants_ to apologize, but the words won’t come, so she dumbly take another gulp of ale instead. “I, uh,” she says to the bottom of her tankard once she’s lowered it, “I think I’m much more drunk than I thought.” Her voice is quavering, and she doesn’t know if it’s the ale, her hammering heartbeat, the realization of what she’s done, or all three. “I,” she pauses and forces herself to swallow around the tightness of her throat, “I’m going to, um, to go lay down until we reach Dalaran. Try to sleep this off.”

She doesn’t give him time to respond before she turns and heads for the ladder that leads to the main deck.

Climbing back down is harder than climbing up, and she curses herself for even _touching_ the ale every single rung of the way. Her lips still tickle from where they’d been pressed to his beard, and she licks them to try to quell the sensation.

The taste of salt, sharp and sudden, bursts across her tongue.

_Salt that had been on his cheek._

Mortification stops her in her tracks, and she lets her head thunk against the nearest ladder rung. She can only hope he’ll forgive her in the morning because Light knows she’ll never forgive herself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't planned to post this for another week. But, in light of the holiday we have coming, I decided to go ahead as a bit of a Thanksgiving treat to myself. I hope everyone who celebrates Thanksgiving this week has a safe, warm, and happy one.

Camdyn’s head is still swimming slightly when they make port in Dalaran. The trip had been only a handful of hours - enough to sleep off the worst of the alcohol, but not enough to be fully sober.

She wishes it had been enough to sleep off the worst of the embarrassment.

The air that fills the lower decks is too quiet and too still. She’d expected chill from altitude and the stink of festering stagnation that permeates the entirety of Deadwind Pass. Her left hand reflexively drops to her side and just behind her hip, preparing to receive the haft of her hammer, as her right hand rises to her sternum, fingers curling just under the edge of the catch on her baldric. There aren’t any noises of battle, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the area is safe. Camdyn has seen enough surprise raids by felbats and winged doomlords to know death can come both silently and swiftly, and she won’t deny the knife’s edge of her nerves still pressing sharp and tight under her skin from the massacre on the Broken Shore.

She creeps up the stairs, brushing her shoulder against the wooden paneling. Halfway up, the sky breaks over the top of the stairs, the arcane shield over the city purple and vibrant and crackling with defensive magic. The tension rushes out of her in a harsh sigh, and her careful ascent turns into a clipped jog.

When she breaches the deck, it’s into controlled, and muted, chaos. The night before, before anyone had poured any ale, before the casks had even been found, they had triaged the survivors as best they could. There had been only a handful of truly gravely wounded fighters, but they were why Dalaran had been chosen as the port of call rather than the much closer Stormwind.

Dalaran is home to the foremost medical experts in magical injuries.

The priests and paladins they did have - herself included, despite the fact that healing arts have never been her forte - had done all they could to stabilize the wounded, but even the most dedicated priest on board had been wildly out of her depth with the most serious cases. Treating a magical injury isn’t the same as setting a broken bone or healing a burn. Those, Camdyn knows, are straightforward, if painful.

But magic is slippery; magic infests and twists and worms its way through the flesh and into the core, burrowing under the skin. Magic will repel attempts at healing, at first responding to the Light only to flare again worse than before.

If magic is bad, fel is worse.

And if there was one thing there had been more of on the Broken Shore than magic, it was fel. That so many of the company had survived relatively unscathed is lucky. That so few had been tainted by fel is a blessing.

But for the few who had been, time is short and hope shorter.

While mages clad in the purple and gold barding of the Kirin Tor bring stretchers aboard for the more seriously wounded, the few injured capable of independent movement are already hobbling toward the gangplank and trailing off the ship. Camdyn makes her way toward them. Her head might still be buzzing, but her step is steady, and she’s certainly sober enough to help get the wounded to the medical district.

She shoulders under a draenei with a shattered hoof. The purple tinge of his skin doesn’t look as vibrant as it should, and the sweat beading his brow is worrisome.

“Incoming!” a voice behind her barks, and then she’s jostled out of the way by a broad-shouldered, stern-faced mage. A gnome writhes and sobs on the stretcher the mage is supporting as a sickly green light emanates in pulsing waves from behind tectonic cracks in her skin; a frostwolf follows whimpering behind as the stretcher is carried at a near jog off the ship.

“Do you think she’ll be alright?” the draenei asks through clenched teeth.

Camdyn’s gut roils. Not even when she was fighting her way through the bowels of the Undercity after the Wrathgate, not even in Putress’s laboratory, has she seen anything so sickening and heartrending and horrifying as what had gone by on the stretcher. “I certainly hope so,” is the only reply she can manage.

She bolsters her shoulder into the draenei’s ribs, forcing him to lean against her some. “Let’s get you to the medical district.”

It’s slow going, filled with numerous stops, and the longer they go, the more apparent signs of magical injury become - his color continues to wane, and it looks like there’s something snaking under his skin when she catches him from the corner of her eye - but they make it. She’s only just getting him settled with a healer when her skin begins to prickle even under her armor and the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end.

This sensation, at least, is highly familiar after her time in Draenor.

She pulls in a deep breath and blows it out in a rush, steeling herself before turning around. Khadgar’s servant bobs serenely in the doorway, completely incongruous with the agony and chaos only meters from it.

“Commander.” The voice fills her mind rather than being actual sound. She can’t imagine a time when that won’t send tension rippling down the back of her skull and into her collar. She hates it. “The Archmage requires your presence,” the servant continues. “It is most urgent.”

Even more unnerving than the way the thing speaks is that she has to respond verbally where there’s been only silence to anyone else. “ _How_ urgent? I was going to try to help the healers here.”

“Highly. I was instructed to impress upon you that the matter cannot wait.”

She can’t help the frown twisting her mouth as she follows Khadgar’s servant into the street. There isn’t a reason she can think of Khadgar would need to see her specifically, and especially not urgently. She had delivered as full a report as she could aboard the gunship, and Lady Jaina had been present for that.

As Camdyn and Khadgar’s servant approach the massive stairs leading into the Violet Citadel, Khadgar races down to meet them, his face drawn and shoulders tense.

“We haven’t much time,” he says by way of greeting as he turns and begins to make his way back up the stairs, clearly expecting her to follow. Camdyn falls in behind him, matching his stride as best she can. “I intend to convince Jaina to accept the Horde back into the Kirin Tor, and I need your help.“

The shock knocks her back on her heels, and she stops halfway up the stairway. “ _What_?”

Khadgar whirls around to face her. The lines around his eyes are so stark with anxiety that Camdyn could probably count them if she wanted to. “I have seen what the Legion is capable of,” he says, his voice hollow and haunted and coming from low in his throat. “And so have you. We need a united force, not a divided one. And that means we need the Horde with us.”

The worst part is that he isn’t wrong. But the Broken Shore is still too fresh, too raw to allow the logic to seep through. “I’ve seen the Legion,” she concedes, her own voice low and tight, “but I’ve also seen the Horde. _I was at the Wrathgate,_ ” she spits through clenched teeth, the anger still as hot and sharp as it was then. She doesn’t care. “I’ve seen what they’ve done to Southshore. I was at Theramore in the aftermath. _I_ pulled Prince Anduin’s broken body out from under the Divine Bell. _I was on the Broken Shore._ Sylvanas _abandoned_ us when we needed her most. We’re damned lucky to have made it out at all. She almost cost us _everything_ , Khadgar.”

Khadgar sighs, and a heaviness she hadn’t seen before settles on his shoulders. “I know,” he says. “I know all of it. And I can understand and don’t fault you.” His grip shifts on Atiesh, and the edges of his knuckles whiten. But his eyes are bright and clear. “But you know perhaps better than most the importance of looking past faction lines. Are there not tauren and blood elves among your order?”

“That isn’t the same.”

“But it is, my friend. You are brethren due to your service to a higher purpose. And just as Horde paladins and Alliance paladins are united in their service to the Light, we must be united against the Burning Legion. We _cannot_ fight a war on two fronts, and we cannot stop the Legion at half strength. Hate the Horde later, if you must. But for now, I beg of you, help me convince Jaina to reinstate them in the Kirin Tor. We _need_ them.”

The defiance bleeds from her, at first slowly and then in a rush, leaving her feeling wrung out and worn. “Why _me_ , Khadgar?”

One of his eyebrows quirks, and his smile is slightly crooked. “Precisely _because_ of all you’ve seen,” he says as he begins his ascent up the stairs again. “If someone with your history says we should welcome the Horde back into the fold, so to speak, I believe Jaina might actually listen.”


	4. Chapter 4

As Khadgar pushes open the massive door to the Violet Citadel to admit them, the heavy dark wood gliding effortlessly across the tiled floor is surprisingly silent.

The scene inside, however, is anything but.

“Jaina, you _have_ to!”

Varian Wrynn stands in the center of the grand hall, facing a half circle of mages, all clad in various trappings and robes of station. Camdyn hasn’t seen him since the night before, since she’d... He had already been off the ship by the time she had gotten her armor back on and made it to the upper deck, and Camdyn’s throat closes at the sight of him. At how notably tense his shoulders are even under his armor, at the true beginnings of a beard shading and softening the strong line of his jaw, at the same intensity she’d first seen in Icecrown so many years ago and in so many battles since sparking in his eyes.

As quickly as she acknowledges it, she tamps it all down as firmly as she ever has, her own shoulders rolling as she tries to ignore her hammering pulse and the fluttering of her stomach. They aren’t here because she had an extreme lapse in judgment. They aren’t here so she can nurse a decade old crush.

They’re here to try to save Azeroth. 

“No, Varian, I don’t!” Jaina snaps as Camdyn slips fully into the room and Khadgar slides the door shut behind them. They take up what Camdyn hopes is an inconspicuous position against the wall. “Have you so quickly forgotten that they abandoned us to die on the Broken Shore? Have you forgotten what they did to Theramore? Have you forgotten what they did to _Anduin_?”

“ _Jaina_ -” It’s more of a snarl than a word, his brow darkening and fists clenching.

“They’re _cowards_ , Varian!” Jaina cuts him off with a firm shake of her head, and even from across the room Camdyn can see the pulse in Jaina’s throat throbbing with what she can only assume is adrenaline and rage. “ _Monsters_! Accepting them back is only asking for them to betray us again, and that is a risk we _cannot_ take, especially with the Legion practically on our doorstep.”

Khadgar finally moves away from her, stepping into the center of the hall next to Varian and putting himself squarely in the proverbial line of fire. “Jaina,” he says, his voice steady and calm, which oddly only seems to thicken the tension that’s already heavy in the room, “Varian is right. We need the Horde mages back in the Kirin Tor. We cannot fight a war against both the Horde and the Legion. Of the people standing in this room, I’m the only one to have seen the full might of the Legion brought to bear, and I assure you _they_ are the more dire threat. We _cannot_ defeat them alone.”

Jaina’s eyes flash and her lips thin. “Camdyn,” her eyes are still locked on Khadgar, but her chin tilts in Camdyn’s direction. “Time and again, I’ve seen you stand against the Horde. You have seen the Horde’s cowardice at Theramore and at the Wrathgate. You helped purge the Sunreavers from Dalaran after they stole the Divine Bell and delivered it to Garrosh. Tell me, what would you do in my place?”

Camdyn’s tongue feels like lead and her throat is painfully dry as she forces a swallow. “Truthfully, my lady?”

There’s a shrewdness in Jaina’s gaze as it finally slides to her that makes Camdyn shift self-consciously in her boots, and it takes almost every bit of self-control she has not to flinch. “I don’t make a habit of seeking counsel hoping for lies.”

It feels like everyone in the room is watching her, waiting for her answer as she weighs her words, and it makes her skin tingle uncomfortably. Especially when she sees Varian turn to face her as well. She carefully advances to the middle of the room herself, taking up a position next to Khadgar before she addresses the Council. “I would take the help,” she finally says, as earnestly as she can manage. “I would watch both my back and their blade hand, but I would still take it.”

“Even after all the atrocities you’ve seen first hand? Even after the Broken Shore?”  
  
“Yes, my lady. Even after it all. Fighting a war on two fronts is foolish at best and suicide at worst. Especially against an enemy like the Legion.”

“’The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’,” Jaina scoffs, “but what if your ‘ _friend_ ’ doesn’t feel the same?” It’s clearly a rhetorical question. One Camdyn refuses to blame her for.

“None of them are wrong, Jaina,” Archmage Modera says, her alto voice cutting firmly through the silence. “Now is _not_ the time to hold tight to old grudges, no matter how justified those grudges may be. I call for a vote. All those in favor of reinstating mages belonging to the Horde races into the Kirin Tor?”

When only one other dissenting vote is placed, Jaina’s gaze drifts to the floor, her pupils wide and her nostrils flaring before her mouth sets in a compressed line. When she looks up again, her eyes are shuttered and cold. “If this is the road you all wish to travel down,” she says, ice practically frosting the edges of her words, “then so be it. But you’ll be doing it without me. Mark my words, Khadgar: the Horde can’t be trusted. I’m just sorry it will take another betrayal before you understand that. I can only hope you live through it _to_ understand.”

A portal opens behind her and before another word can be spoken, Jaina Proudmoore is gone.

The portal snaps closed as quickly as it had opened, and the silence it leaves behind feels deafening.

“That,” Khadgar sighs as he rubs a hand across his forehead, “ended much more poorly than I’d hoped.”

“I would consider that an understatement,” Varian murmurs, his gaze still locked where Jaina had been standing only moments before. He blows out a harsh breath through his nose before turning to Khadgar. “We don’t have time to waste while the rest of the Kirin Tor votes in a replacement for Jaina. Are you capable of serving as the head of the Council of the Six?”

“I don’t know,” Khadgar admits, his confusion and reluctance near palpable as he shoves a hand through his hair. “I haven’t served among the Kirin Tor in years, and truth be told they never have liked me much.” 

“They don’t need to _like_ you,” Varian assures him, “just _listen_ to you. You yourself pointed out that you’re the only one of us to have seen the full might of the Legion. We need an experienced hand on the rudder, and you seem to be the most experienced hand we have.”

“The rest of the Kirin Tor will follow our lead,” Archmage Modera says. “Varian is right: we need someone with experience to guide us, and you’re the best resource we have. You’ll be hard pressed to find a mage of the Kirin Tor who would disagree with that.” She steps toward them and lays a reassuring hand on Khadgar’s shoulder. “Besides,” she adds, the corner of her mouth curling in a wry grin, “ _I’ve_ always liked you just fine, you daft old bat.”

Khadgar snorts out a chuckle. “And here I was, prepared to find that reassuring, Modera. Right up until the end, at least.”

Archmage Modera’s smile turns genuine. “Just until the end? Clearly my punchlines need some work, then.”

As Khadgar and Modera drift toward the foot of the stairs, their voices low in conversation, Camdyn is suddenly painfully aware of the fact that Varian is still standing next to her. She’s equally aware of the heat flaring across her cheeks and the quickening of her pulse. Cautiously, she cuts a look at him from the corner of her eye.

Their gazes lock, just for a moment, and she can’t breathe because her heart has jumped into her throat. There’s something pensive in the line of his brow and she hopes _desperately_ that her cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.

Because she hadn’t been near as drunk last night as she’d hoped: she still vividly remembers _everything_ \- the musk of his sweat, the taste of salt from his cheek, the heat of the edge of his mouth against hers. She should apologize. It was an overstep, and it was inappropriate. It was more than likely unwelcome.

She’s trying to find the words to ask him for a private moment that won’t compound the feeling she's about to spontaneously combust from shame when the massive door slams open, and brilliantly blinding light floods the hall. On instinct, Camdyn steps forward, putting herself between the Council and the door. Between Varian and the door. Her hammer is already in her hands and the ground beneath her feet is already golden and glowing before her eyes have even had time to adjust.

When they do, she sees a dwarf doubled over in the doorway, hands on his knees for support, his face obscured by the wide brim of his hat.

“Brann?” Camdyn asks, incredulous, as the fire in her is doused, the golden light at the edges of her vision dissipating as quickly as she’d called upon it.

“You,” Brann Bronzebeard pants as he straightens and points an accusatory finger over Camdyn’s shoulder, “are one difficult bastard to find, do you know that? You’d think with your armor being so distinctive I could spot you from Krasus’ Landing, but, _no_ , you’ve got yourself shut in a damned mage tower making me chase all over the blasted city trying to find you.”

“In my defense,” Varian responds, humor rich in his voice, “it was an unexpected stop. I’d thought to offload our wounded and return to Stormwind.” His eyes darken and the set of his mouth tightens before he adds, “Jaina had other plans.”

Brann makes his way into the hall, his eyes scanning the group of mages at the foot of the stairs before making a harrumphing noise in the back of his throat. “I’ll have to ask her about those plans next time I see her, then,” he says. He stops in front of Varian, squinting under his hat. “Your pauldrons are missing, lad. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

“That’s,” Varian pauses to scratch at his beard, “a long story,” he says mildly. “Why were you looking for me?”

“It’s Magni. He’s up and around. And I’ve heard rumors he’s in Ulduar.”

“ _Magni_?” Khadgar’s voice rings from across the room, sounding as shocked as Camdyn feels and Varian looks.

“Are you sure?” Camdyn asks. “But he was turned to diamond. I thought he hadn’t survived.”

“Aye, lass, that’s what we all thought. But he’s missing from Ironforge. I’ve seen it myself. Raced straight to find you,” he nods to Varian, “once I’d confirmed it.” A broad smile stretches Brann’s mouth. “It’s just a dwarf’s honest luck my favorite student is here as well,” he says to Camdyn as he reaches into the pouch on his belt and produces a thick metal coil. He drops it to the floor where it expands and rotates, growing until it’s large enough to stand upon, a heavy golden gear with a glowing blue light at its center.

“An Ulduar teleporter?” Everything in Camdyn wants to step on the plate, but she hesitates; she hadn’t thought it possible for one to function outside the Titan fortress.

“An Ulduar teleportation pad,” Brann corrects. “Mimiron gave it to me in case of an emergency. I’d say my supposedly-dead brother walking around a Titan structure qualifies as an ‘emergency’, don’t you? I assume you’re coming with me, lass. Any other takers?”

Camdyn feels Varian’s energy shift as surely as she hears his scale mail clinking as his weight shifts in his boots. She chances a look at him, and the set of his shoulders is as familiar to her as the weight of her hammer on her back. It’s the stance of a soldier. His gaze flicks to hers and something passes between them, something that sends a tingle zipping up her spine. He offers her the barest nod and allows her to return in kind before he speaks. “I’ll go.”

Khadgar steps forward. “I will, as well. If it’s truly Magni, I have a great deal of questions for him.”

Brann motions to the pad on the floor. “After you lot, then.”

The breath Camdyn takes stretches her ribs. As she exhales, she steels herself and steps onto the pad.


	5. Chapter 5

As the blue light washes over him and fades away, Varian is taken aback. The after-action reports hadn’t prepared him for the full magnitude and magnificence of Ulduar. Countless observations whirl in the back of his mind as he moves away from the pad to make room for Brann and Khadgar to teleport safely in: the astonishing height of the vaulted ceilings, the massive dimensions of each gleaming floor tile under his boots, the impressive amount of giltwork adorning each monumental column.

The fact that he _desperately_ needs a bath and is in equally sore want of a shave.

The fact that Camdyn Morris is standing six steps ahead of him, slightly wide-eyed and with a flush to envy bloodthistle splashed across her cheeks, so vibrant and deep that it darkens the angry purple bruise splotched high on her left cheekbone.

He doesn’t need to work to realize why she’s blushing - he knows what it is to be drunk and foolish. What it is to be drunk and _wanting_. Accordingly, Varian doesn’t fault her for whatever she might be feeling. But what he can’t quite put a finger on is how _he_ feels about the situation. About how he _wants_ to feel about it.

All he knows is for certain is that, for all the years he’s known Camdyn Morris, for all the years he’s trusted her to guard his kingdom and watch over his son, for all the times he’s trusted her to fight in his name and at his side, he’s never really _looked_ at her before now.

Now, among the grandeur of Ulduar, Varian realizes that the top of Camdyn’s head only just reaches the top of his shoulder. That she has faint freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks. That her eyes are green.

He watches as she resolutely refuses to actually look him in the eye, watches the muscles of her throat working as she forces a swallow, as she takes a deep, bracing breath. “General,“ and her voice sounds thick with embarrassment, “I-”

Blue light flares brilliantly behind him, and Camdyn’s gaze shifts to the side, shuttering near completely and the flush on her cheeks muting. He isn’t sure why that feels like a loss, but it does.

“This place is _magnificent_ ,” Varian hears Khadgar breathe just before a second flash illuminates his periphery vision and makes him squint against the glare.

“You’re not all going to just stand around slack-jawed, are you?” Brann grumbles as Varian turns around to face him. There’s an edge of desperation under the gruff joviality that cuts through the room.

“Sorry, Brann. Where should we start?” Camdyn asks, her voice gentler than Varian ever recalls hearing it before, and it pulls his gaze back to her. Her expression is so soft, so _open_ , that it takes every bit of training Varian has ever received not to rock back on his heels and just _stare_ at her.

A frown pulls at the corners of his mouth and creases the skin between his eyebrows as he watches them, trying to remember when he became so unaccustomed to such blatant _compassion_. The weight of years on the throne, years of dealing with duplicitous nobles, settles low and heavy in his gut. The nobility is never so sincere or free with what they truly feel.

It’s a stark contrast that Camdyn Morris wears her heart so openly on her sleeve and Varian can’t help but notice, can’t help being slightly awed by it.

“Where to start? I don’t know, lass,” Brann is saying, hands on his hips and annoyance making his words sharper than they should be, bringing the entire reason for the trip back into sharp focus, making trepidation hum under Varian’s skin and twist behind his ribs like a live thing. Everything indicates that Magni is actually here. Or, at least, something calling itself Magni, but he doesn’t want to get too far ahead of himself. Doesn’t want to _hope_. “Magni didn’t exactly leave a travel plan,” Brann continues. “All Belgrum told me was that he mentioned Ulduar before he rumbled off. He might not even be here yet, for all I know. It’s a blasted long way to here from Ironforge.”

“We could split up and scout-“ Camdyn stops short when a mechanical homunculus designed to look like a very large gnome suddenly appears in the doorway of the giant hall where they’ve all been standing.

“Welcome back to Ulduar, Explorer Bronzebeard and Paladin Morris,” the automaton says. Varian wonders if he should be concerned that it hasn’t addressed either Khadgar or himself before realizing it likely only knows of Brann and Camdyn due to their previous exploits here. “The Speaker has been expecting you, Explorer Bronzebeard. If you will all follow me, the Speaker awaits you in the Celestial Planetarium.”

Camdyn’s body language shifts, becomes more rigid and battle ready, and Varian follows her lead, reaching for Shalamayne and carefully unsheathing it.

“Who is the Speaker?” Brann asks.

“The Speaker is the Speaker.”

Camdyn’s responding snort sounds somewhat derisive. “Well then at least we know it isn’t Algalon,” she mutters.

“You are correct, Paladin Morris. Algalon was the Observer.” Varian thinks the homunculus sounds a bit too chipper; he remembers the after-action reports detailing Algalon’s actions. Remembers the special report Rhonin had delivered on what it all would have meant if Algalon’s opinion hadn’t been…forcibly changed. “The Speaker means you no ill will,” it continues. “The Speaker simply wishes to speak with you.” Its mechanical eyes whir as they rove over first Camdyn and then him. “I assure you, weapons will not be necessary. Please, follow me.”

The automaton turns back up the hallway, leaving the four of them the choice to either stand there or follow. Varian watches Camdyn, waits until her gaze slides to his, until she’s offered him a small nod and he sees the tension in her spine uncoil before he slides Shalamayne back into its sheath.

Camdyn’s eyes are still on him, waiting for him to act, waiting for him to make a decision. This time, the nod is his as he crosses the space and draws up next to her, and the two of them fall in just slightly to the rear of the group.

“Ulduar is,” Khadgar pauses, and Varian watches his head craning to take in the monumental height of the vaulted ceiling so many meters above them as they make their way down the hall after the homunculus, “much tidier than I expected after the stories I’d heard.”

“Yes,” it answers. “The keepers have ordered repairs to Ulduar’s infrastructure.” The thing keeps talking; he knows it does because something in the back of his brain is still registering the even, mechanical whirring of its simulated voice, but the sound is drowned out by the feeling of _wrongness_ crawling over his skin.

His pace slows, and next to him, Camdyn has stopped entirely. Her brow is furrowed, and he can see the pulse quickening in the hollow of her throat as her hands slide into place to free her hammer. She cants her head in his direction but keeps her eyes facing ahead of them, scanning. The set of her mouth is grim. “You feel that?” she murmurs.

Varian frees Shalamayne, its weight comforting and familiar on his arm. “Be ready.”

The floor beneath him ignites with holy light a scant moment before sickly fel green portals swirl into being around them.

Two hulking monstrosities with clawed hands and tentacled mouths burst from the portals, screeching and lurching as soon as they materialize, the holy energy burning through the flesh of their feet. Camdyn’s hammer heaves through the air, punctuated by the sickening crunch of a breaking rib cage, as Varian launches himself at the second beast with a roar. The one she had hit falls to its knees, its claw still outstretched and reaching for their group.

Magic crackles over Varian’s skin, and electricity arcs over the monsters as he drives his sword through the creature’s gullet, twisting Shalamayne before firmly yanking it back. The stench of viscera is musky and sour and distinctive as it spills out around his boots.

He hears Brann grunt somewhere to his left and ducks under the flailing arm the beast swings at him to see if he can spot the dwarf.

The first beast has climbed back to its feet, but Brann is next to Camdyn, axe in hand and cleaving through its femoral artery.

“Varian!” Camdyn barks just as a massive claw swings toward his face, and he’s momentarily blinded by the fiery ball of light that detonates in front of him. The beast howls and Varian’s vision is just clear enough to see it pull back a quickly disintegrating ashen stump.

Rage boils under his skin, and it only takes one firm swing of his blade to separate the thing’s head from its shoulders. He uses the momentum to pivot and drive the point of his sword firmly through the first beast’s spine, impaling it completely. Gravity makes the carcass slip from his blade; it falls to the ground with a gurgling growl.

Heat flares in the room as Khadgar weaves a spell to incinerate the corpses.

“What were those?” Varian demands. He’s never seen anything like them before. They hadn’t been demons, but they had felt _unclean_ , left him feeling like something foreign was slithering under his skin.

“Faceless Ones,” Camdyn answers, frowning down in confusion at the charred husks as they dwindle to ash. “Minions of the Old Gods. I thought we’d cleared them all out, especially after we drove Yogg-Saron back into his prison.” The automaton had ducked out of the way, huddling in corner, once the fighting had broken out. She turns to it, her frown deepening. “Why were they here?”

“I do not know,” it says as it straightens and faces them. “There have been random appearances over the last five years.”

Camdyn’s mouth twists, and there’s sheer horror in her expression. “And you didn’t tell us this before now?”

“The appearances have been infrequent and thus considered anomalous.” The automaton’s head tilts as if listening to something none of the rest of them can hear, and its voice takes on an air of urgency. “The city’s defenses have been compromised. Units assigned to safeguard the Speaker are not responding to my queries.”

Brann’s shoulders tense and the anxious twisting of his mouth makes his beard twitch. “If that’s really Magni,” he says, voice low and grim, “the Old Gods might not be the only thing after him.”

“We’re after him, too,” Varian growls. “And we need to get there. Now. Camdyn, take the lead. If the Legion _is_ here, you’re the most equipped of us to deal with them.”

Camdyn nods her assent, despite the faint blush flaring high on her cheekbones. “Of course, General.”

“The Celestial Planetarium is this way,” the automaton says before it takes off at a steady jog, gears whining with the stress.

The massive hallway is blessedly empty as they chase after it. There’s still something wrong in the air, though, something that shimmers and fizzles and crawls over Varian’s nerves.

“Wait!” Khadgar yells just before their group rounds a corner, and they all obediently skid to a stop just as a wall of fel green energy snaps up mere inches in front of their guide. A hideously skeletal figure in oversized robes floats just behind the barrier. Its skin is stretched and leathered, its lips shrunken back from its teeth. The horned hood it wears is comically large, the hem so low as to ride what would have been the bridge of its nose had the cartilage not long since desiccated. The fact that its presumably empty eye sockets are covered doesn’t stop terror for twisting in Varian’s gut when the thing turns to face them.

“Interlopers!” it accuses as it stretches a bony finger in their direction. Its voice sounds like wind over dry leaves and the tips of dead tree branches screeching against window panes and links of heavy chain rubbing against each other, and it shivers over Varian’s skin and down through the back of his skull.

Brilliant, golden light flares in front of him, enveloping Camdyn, radiating from her as she stares the thing down, determination hardening the delicate lines of her features. The demon roars in anger at her defiance, maw hanging open unnaturally far, displaying rows of jagged teeth. “Stop them!” it orders the two felguards flanking it. “I must find out what the prisoner knows!”

“You won’t invade my mind, you rotting sack of bones!” It would be a rich dwarven brogue but for the fact that it sounds like tumbling rocks and ringing echoes.

“Magni!” Brann hefts his axe and widens his stance. “Khadgar, take this barrier down. We have to help my brother!”

Magic tingles in the air, pressing against Varian’s skin, making pressure mount in his ears, and he tightens his grip on Shalamayne. Power coils in his muscles as he tenses, ready to move as soon as an opening presents itself.

“Kill the mage!” the demon commands. “Gul’dan wants his head.”

“You can inform your master I’ve grown rather attached to it,” Khadgar retorts, fingers moving deftly as he spins his spells.

His magic releases in a rush of air and crisp _cleanness._ A ball of clear space forms in the middle of the barrier, the fel energy shimmering and dissolving around it as it rapidly widens.

“You take the felguards,” Camdyn bites out. “I’ll handle the chatty one.” She roars a war cry and takes off through the breach before he can stop her, before he can agree to her plan or direct her otherwise. The felguards are already coming for her, and Varian’s adrenaline surges. But Camdyn charges past them, ignoring them as small explosions of light in her wake leave them howling and clutching their faces.

Her hammer gleams with her reflected light as it slams through the air and into the side of the demon’s skull.

“You heard the lady, lad!” Brann crows, axe held aloft and already cutting through the air as he leaps wildly into the fray with far more agility than someone so short and powerfully built should feasibly possess.

Varian follows them both in, racing for the felguard that’s begun to chase Camdyn. He’s faster, more agile than Brann, for all that he’s bigger. He closes the gap with a powerful leap and solidly slams his shoulder into its spine, knocking the thing to its knees and immediately cleaving Shalamayne through its neck before it can recover its balance. The felguard’s head rolls across the floor with a muted, meaty sound and the body collapses, ichor spewing in regular pulses from the stump of its neck.

His gaze snaps up, immediately tracking to Camdyn.

A pile of crumpled fabric and crumbled bones lays at her feet, and the Light she wields so deftly still glows around her, illuminating an expression that holds no softness at all.

Rising heat and the smell of burning flesh tell him Khadgar has set the other felguard alight.

It’s only a fraction of another heartbeat before Varian spots him. He’s no longer flesh and bone, no longer mortally imperfect and finely detailed; he’s now harsh lines and unforgiving geometric perfection. But for it all, he’s still indisputably Magni Bronzebeard. A knot of emotion tightens high in Varian’s chest, stitching itself to his sternum and clogging his throat. Of all the people he’s had to endure losing, having even one of them back feels like a miracle. “Hello, old friend,” he murmurs, his voice thick.

“Magni!” Brann cries in the same moment. His eyes are wet and his voice is more hoarse than Varian’s ever heard it.

“Hello, Brann!” Magni replies, diamond teeth winking in a brilliant smile. “And Varian! It’s good to see you. And I’m glad you came. You need to hear this, too. No doubt you both have questions, and good ones, too - you always were smart lads - but time isnae exactly a friend. Follow me.”

Magni leads the way around the edge of the room, skirting a giant globe of Azeroth spinning lazily in the center of the room. Each step of his crystalline feet on the tile floor ripples in tinkling echoes, the sound reverberating and refracting and building on itself until it sounds almost musical. “She wants me to pass on an important message,” he says as he leads them to yet another hallway. “The ritual that changed my body also opened my ears to the voice of Azeroth. She isnae just a hunk of rock. Azeroth’s a Titan.”

Magni says it so simply, as if it’s just a core, accepted truth, that it takes a moment before Varian realizes what he’s actually said. Once he does, awareness and trepidation lance straight through him, hot fingers from his brain to his gut drawing him up short.

The knowledge of Azeroth’s true nature changes _everything_. It changes everything he thought he knew about the Legion’s plans, and it raises too many uncertainties to properly account for and strategize around.

If Azeroth is a Titan, do they actually stand a chance to drive the Legion away or is her pull and presence too great for the Legion to resist, eternally drawing it like a magnet?

If Azeroth is a Titan, will the others come to her defense, and if they do, what would a battle between the Legion and the Titans look like from a casualty standpoint?

If Azeroth is a Titan, is she aware enough to help them repel the Legion?

What happens to them all if she is?

“A _Titan_?” Varian dimly hears Khadgar breathe, drawing his attention back to the present. “That…actually explains a great many things.”

He doesn’t move to catch up to the group; he isn’t so far behind he needs to. Camdyn had been bringing up the rear and she hasn’t yet even reached him.

When she finally does, he silently falls in next to her.

"General,” she acknowledges with a dip of her chin. She sounds distant, distracted, and her pace is slower than he recalls it previously. He wonders if she shares his realizations and fears.

Ahead of them, Brann roughly scrubs at his forehead with his fingers. “My own brother turned to diamond and started talking to Titans? Don’t know if I’m jealous or gone mad.”

“There’s more,” Magni says as he stops outside a massive set of double doors. “Come inside the Celestial Planetarium, and I’ll show you the truth.”

“Don’t we need a key?” Brann asks, gesturing at the Titan lock sealing the doors closed.

“I _am_ the key.” With a snap of Magni’s fingers, the lock spins and whirs and separates into two halves that slide apart, the doors following until they recede into the frame.

Starlight rains gently down through the now open doorway.

“Remember this place, Brann?” Magni says as he leads them down a ramp. The floor is like glass and the only reason Varian trusts it is because he can hear Magni’s musical steps continuing to echo in the vast chamber. Star maps shine through the floor and project from the ceiling. It’s breathtaking. It’s like walking the cosmos.

He isn’t so caught in the majesty of it, however, that he misses the twitch of Camdyn’s fingers or the tension of her shoulders. He readies himself to reach for Shalamayne again.

“I’m getting flashbacks to Algalon,” Brann mutters.

“You aren’t the only one,” Camdyn confirms, her voice equally low.

Magni makes a sound that might have once been a chuckle but now sounds like gems clinking against each other. “The Observer was just doing his job, such as it was. And you lot taught him something besides.”

Magni snaps again, and the star maps race in to merge and coalesce into a giant humanoid shape. _Algalon._ Or an echo of him at any rate. “Perhaps,” says the shape, “it is your imperfection…that which grants you free will…that allows you to persevere against all cosmically calculated odds. You prevail where the Titan’s own perfect creations have failed.”

The shape explodes in a dazzling light, stars racing back out to retake their prescribed places.

“After defeating the Old Gods,” Magni says as the star maps continue to reform overhead and underfoot, “the keepers were given the task of ordering the world. The Titans gave them five mighty artifacts to aid them: the Pillars of Creation. When their work was done, the keepers sealed the Pillars away. But like so many relics, they ended up in the hands of mortals.”

“This all sounds familiar,” Khadgar frowns, his voice contemplative. “I’m _sure_ I’ve heard of these Pillars before, but I can’t recall exactly where.”

“I’m sure you have, lad. The knowledge of their location was given to the Guardian of Tirisfal and remains there still. Meant to be a bit of a failsafe, that.”

Recognition sparks in Khadgar’s eyes. “Karazhan! Of course! I can’t believe I didn’t realize it sooner! I must have read about them in one of Medivh’s ancient chronicles.”

“You must find the Pillars. It’s the only way to save Azeroth. Combined, their power can seal the Legion’s gateway to her.”

“It’s not every day a planet points me to my own library,” Khadgar says, a bit bemusedly. “Thank you, Magni. I’d be most grateful if at least you would accompany me to Karazhan, Camdyn. No telling what we’ll find there. Archmage or not, I’d rather not depend entirely on my own magic when a solid bow… or hammer… can be at my back. Not with those things.”

She snorts a chuckle. “You know,” she grumbles, but it’s belied by the easy grin tilting the corners of her mouth, “one of these days I’m going to learn to tell you no. Telling you ‘yes’ always ends so badly for my armor.”

“Thankfully for my safety,” Khadgar smiles, “my charm and boyish good looks have yet to fail me when I ask a lady to save me from imminent doom.” He makes a smooth gesture, hands glowing with arcane energy, and his magic begins to weave thick and heavy through the air, quickly coalescing into a shimmering portal. “Here we go.”

Something flickers at the back Varian’s mind, a sense of dread coiling in his gut. “I’m coming, too,” he says, moving in before Camdyn can. “This is too important to leave to only two, no matter how capable you both are.”

Khadgar’s eyes widen, but the hands holding the spell are steady. “Are you sure, Varian? I’m glad to have more than one fighter between me and whatever might want to eat me, but generals can’t usually just walk off like that.”

“The Old Gods and the Legion were both after Magni and what he knew, and they were here.“ He rolls his shoulders, the weight of his armor a comfort. "It’s a safe assumption they might be at Karazhan, too.” He turns to Magni, a pang of regret twisting in him. "Magni, I wish…”

“It’s good to see you, Varian,” Magni says, and Varian’s not sure whether he should swear or be grateful at the interruption. “And I promise we’ll speak soon. Not like I’m going to grow old if you take a wee time away.“ Magni chuckles, a quiet tumbling of sound. "I need a word in private with my brother anyway.”

With a nod of gratitude, Varian steps toward Khadgar’s portal, eyes fixed resolutely on the shimmering, watery piece of magery. “You aren’t coming back to Ironforge, are you,” he hears Brann mutter just before he’s enveloped by the flare of the portal’s magic.

Magni’s glittering voice follows him into the ether. “Nay, brother. She has…other duties for me.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long between 5 and 6. 5 was the last of what I had "pre-written", and it happened to go up right as Thanksgiving and Christmas got here. I'm a mom and things get a little nutty that time of year. Again my apologies, and my promises that 7 shouldn't take as long to crank out as this one did.
> 
> Also a huge thanks to Eleneripenneth and Shadowphoenixrider on tumblr for their beta work. You ladies rock.

Karazhan looms before them, the once-grandiose stone crumbling even as the broken spire reaches for the sky, and the air reeks with the peaty, earthen stench of decaying plant life and the dusty sourness of dead, depleted soil.

A vague familiarity stirs in the back of Varian’s mind, compelling him up the worn dirt path toward the stone arch of the doorway. Llane had told him stories of Karazhan, but only in abstracts and generalities, never in too much detail. Never anything that would make it too _real_. Never, Varian had later pieced together, anything that would call to mind what had become of his dear friend Medivh. But his father had still walked its halls, had come here often not just as a king but as a _man_.

It isn’t often that he longs for his father, but as he stands staring at Karazhan’s gatehouse door, as the stale air washes into his lungs and the dust swirls thickly around his feet, the loss of the last true connection he’d had to his father - Llane’s compass that had slipped from his pouch in the inky waters off the Broken Shore - suddenly aches more sharply than he’d expected it to. Makes the fact that he’s _here_ , somewhere that his father had actually _been_ , matter more.

He wonders what his father would say if he were here, what he would think of Karazhan’s current state of disrepair.

“Ah.” Varian starts at Khadgar’s sheepish utterance. He’d truly almost forgotten that he wasn’t alone. Khadgar stands a good eight paces down the path, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck while his gaze roves over the tower and the grounds.

Between them stands Camdyn. Her brow is slightly furrowed and that same delicate blush is splashed high across her cheekbones, but her eyes are fixed on him, and there’s something in her gaze Varian doesn’t want to think about. Doesn’t want to name.

“I’ve clearly been away too long,” Khadgar eventually says with a heavy sigh as he finally begins to make his way up the path. “You’ll have to forgive the mess the place has become in my absence.”

The heavy dust crushes under Camdyn’s boots like snow as she follows Khadgar. But where Khadgar had continued past him to the gatehouse, Camdyn slows as she nears him, stopping mere inches before reaching him.

“General?”

Her tone is more than inquisitive but stops just shy of being informal and turns the single word into so much more than an acknowledgment of his presence and his position. So much more than a request for a plan. It turns it into an offer of compassion. The same compassion she’d leveled at Brann in Ulduar. The same compassion that she had offered him on the gunship the night before.

“It’s nothing.”

There’s the barest crinkle of the skin between her eyebrows and the most minuscule twitch at the corner of her mouth, but she doesn’t protest, doesn’t push. She simply offers him a perfunctory soldier’s nod and waits for him take the first step up the path again before falling in just barely a pace behind.

Khadgar still stands under the awning of the gatehouse, a hand pressed to the stones, fingers skimming almost lovingly against the mortar. The set of his mouth is wistful, but his eyes are haunted. “I remember when I was sent here,” he says as they approach, his voice lighter than Varian expects. “So young and foolhardy and such a bundle of raw nerves .”

Camdyn digs the toe of her boot into the space between cobbles and cuts an impish look up at Khadgar from under her lashes. “So nothing’s changed all that much, then.”  
  
“Well, my hair certainly has,” Khadgar chuckles. “But I think it can be excused given the circumstances. But that’s enough reminiscing for now,” he says, the note of reluctance in his voice near palpable. “One of the most laborious tasks of my apprenticeship has turned out to have a wonderful unforeseen benefit. Medivh assigned me to catalogue the entire library. It took some doing, but I succeeded. Which means I happen to know _exactly_ where to look for the book about the Pillars of Creation. Assuming the library hasn’t _completely_ rearranged itself since I was here last, that is.”

“That might actually be a possibility,” Camdyn says. “The books were a bit-” she sighs quietly and then waves her fingers in a searching gesture “- _flighty_ when I was here.”

Khadgar hums an acknowledgment and flips open his belt pouch. “So far luck has been on our side today. Perhaps it will continue to favor us.”

As Khadgar fishes a key from his belt pouch and fits it to the lock in the gatehouse door, something _unsettled_ twists low in Varian’s gut. He pushes it down as he shifts slightly in his boots, feeling the familiar weight of Shalamayne shifting with him. At some point, later, when he has time to sit and think he’ll mull it all over - _all_ of it, from that kiss on the gunship to the compassion Camdyn has offered him twice now to the uncertainty writhing through him as he stands on Karazhan’s stoop - but now isn’t the time. Now he needs to be on guard and ready for battle. And so, as he always has, as he always _will_ , he compartmentalizes it and files it away for later.

The lock tumbles open in a small cacophony of iron scraping against metal and wood. Varian expects Khadgar to push the door open and proceed. There’s no reason to wait. And yet, Khadgar stands with his left hand pressed to the wood and his right still delicately poised on the key.

“I should warn you both,” he says without looking at them, “there might be - “ Varian can see his eyes searching, his brow furrowing as he searches for a word “- _visions_. Don’t let them distract you. They can’t harm you.”

“I don’t recall visions when I was here,” Camdyn says.

“Well,” Khadgar answers. “Better safe than sorry. And last time _I_ wasn’t here with you.”

Given the state the rest of the tower is in, the door is surprisingly silent as it swings open. Khadgar leads the way through without looking back, but Camdyn stops at the door and glances up at him.

“Sir?” she asks, gesturing with a single hand to the doorway.

“After you,” Varian responds with a slight dip of his chin in her direction.

The light’s dim to begin with, and she’s standing in the shadows of the gatehouse, but it isn’t so dark that he misses the color rising in her cheeks before she turns and follows Khadgar inside.

As Varian steps into the unassuming but thoroughly massive entry hall behind her, he can’t help but be impressed by the masonry. Stone tiles only marginally smaller than the marble tiles of Ulduar stretch from wall to wall and stone bricks that are each nearly as tall as he is make up the wall from floor to ceiling. The grand marble stairs are clearly visible through the majestic archway yawning open before them, the once decadent velvet runner that travels their length now clearly faded and moth-eaten.

Varian watches both Khadgar and Camdyn as they all make their way toward the stairs. Camdyn’s shoulders are slightly tense, but her pace matches Khadgar’s and she hasn’t yet reached for her hammer; Khadgar seems to be completely oblivious to the pair of them trailing behind, his eyes glimmering and a wistful smile edging at the corner of his mouth.

Varian rolls his shoulders, teasing out the inexplicable tension rising into the back of his neck, and sets a foot on the runner. He expects the fabric to feel _wrong_ under his boot, for it to be too slick with too much give. Instead, it feels as plush and as supportive as freshly lain velvet. Certainly not _ideal_ to fight on should the need arise, but leagues better than either bare marble stairs or moldering cloth.

Ultimately, the ascent up the stairs is a quiet one, but it’s all Varian can do to try to take in the enormity of the ballroom they’ve stepped into. It could put the throne room of Stormwind Keep to shame. The floor tiles are the same dimension of those in the entry hall but are marble instead of stone with an intricately woven and embroidered rug carpeting the entirety of the room save a five foot border on every side. Rather than rough-hewn stone, the walls are smooth, polished granite. To his left, Varian can just make out banquet tables.

But it’s to a nondescript doorway that Khadgar leads them, arcane magic already swirling around his fingertips. Varian sees Camdyn’s head cant the way it had in Ulduar, sees her fingers twitch next to her thighs. “Khadgar?” she says as Varian carefully reaches for Shalamayne.

“Hm?” Khadgar turns to her, eyebrows raised in inquiry. Camdyn raises an eyebrow of her own while staring pointedly at the power now coalescing around the entirety of his hand, swirling in thick purple eddies. “Oh,” he chuckles as he follows her gaze. “That.” He wiggles his fingers, and the magic trails in the air after them like fireflies. “After you and your compatriots were so generous as to clear the tower for me, I took the liberty of putting up a few wards as a security precaution. There are many who would stop at nothing to learn the countless secrets hidden in these walls. It will only be the work of a moment to take them down so we might pass.”

Just as Khadgar returns his attention to the doorway, Varian feels it like ice and metal scrabbling down his spine. Next to him, Camdyn is already wheeling to face the staircase, her hammer slipping free into her hands and the floor igniting beneath her boots as Khadgar mutters, “This ward’s been tampered with. Keep an eye out while I try to take it down.”

Khadgar stretches an open hand to the doorway, the arcane magic flowing from his fingertips and crashing into nothingness, skittering across the empty doorway before sliding to merge with the archway.

It’s only a few tense moments before what Varian had mistaken for a statue shudders to life across the ballroom. He races for it, pulling Shalamayne back so he can cleave at the construct’s core. A flash of light flies past him, striking the construct and stopping it in its tracks. It takes two powerful slashes that grate against his palms and fingers as his blade slices through metal, but the thing arcs with electricity and then falls over in a slump.

When he turns back to face Camdyn and Khadgar, the same intensity he had seen in Ulduar is stark in her eyes. “That was just a distraction,” she murmurs.

“Indeed,” Khadgar answers. “I can feel Medivh’s magic thwarting my defenses. The tower’s been compromised!”

Just as the barrier before them melts away, the floor rumbles perilously under their feet, the whole of the tower quaking. “It’s the Legion!” Camdyn barks, light radiating from her, making her nearly incandescent. Just as Varian turns to the staircase, he can see the first wave of fel lords cresting the bottom of the stairs.

There are already at least a dozen inside with more still pouring in through Karazhan’s gatehouse door. There’s no way they can hold the tower, no way they can stand against all of them.

“Khadgar,” he barks. “We need a barrier! _Now_!”

Near instantly, purple fog races past his head and seals the archway at the top of the stairs just in time for the first fel lords to smash against it, their swords hacking and slashing before bouncing away as the blades make contact with the barrier.

“That won’t hold them for long,” Khadgar says. “We _must_ reach the library! Follow me!” He turns on his heel and sets off at a jog, leading them up a narrow set of stone steps. As they reach the top, another wall of purple bars the way, and two constructs are heading directly for them, arms outstretched menacingly.

“The wards!” Khadgar cries in frustration. “And more sentries!”

“Khadgar-” Varian says warningly as he tightens his grip on Shalamayne’s hilt, the sentries advancing at a steady pace.

“Just a moment,” Khadgar replies tightly, already casting about, his hands frantically picking through items strewn across the top of a serving table next to them. The sentry is mere yards from the ward when Khadgar lets loose a jubilant whoop. “Just,” he says as he triumphantly plucks a book from the clutter, “what I was looking for.” He shoves the book into Camdyn’s hands. “This book has an enchantment that will take you directly to the library as soon as you read it. First page. Get going and be ready for anything! I’ll be along shortly.”

“Khadgar-” Camdyn protests.

“Go on!” Khadgar shouts, arcane power already lighting his eyes and swirling through his fingers. Camdyn’s weight shifts toward Khadgar, and Varian sees her glance down at the book, sees her begin to raise it in his own direction.

Varian snatches her wrist, grabbing as tightly as he dares. “No,” he grits out. “We’re both going.” Camdyn’s gaze flies to his face, her eyes wide in what he can only assume is shock, but she stops trying to advance toward Khadgar. “Khadgar would tell us if he needed us,” he says. “We’ll only be a distraction to him here.” The sentry is feet away now, and Varian feels a fizzle over his skin as arcane energy dissipates around him. “We need to _go_. _Now_.”

The moment hangs between them, feeling longer than it can possibly stretch, her chest rising and falling in two deep breaths before she finally looks away. She raises the book again, but this time she flips the book cover open with her thumb and reads the incantation on the first page.

He isn’t sure what the words are she speaks, but as soon as her voice stops, Varian feels _tugged_ and _yanked_ , spinning and spiraling through space. It’s both nothing and everything like portal travel, somehow familiar but terrifyingly strange.

When the spinning and yanking stop, when he has his feet back, when he can _see_ again, Varian is standing in a library. Or a portion of one at any rate. Camdyn stands next to him, her wrist still clutched in his fingers. Her cheeks are redder than he recalls seeing them, and her eyes are still wide and slightly glassy. He watches as she chews her lower lip and then chokes down a swallow. “Have I ever told you,” she mutters, “that I hate interdimensional travel?”

It’s such a complete nonsequiter, he can’t help the soft chuckle that bubbles up in his throat. “I can’t say I knew that, no,” he answers as he releases her wrist. She gives him a sheepish, lopsided smile of her own before craning her head back. Varian follows her gaze.

He hadn’t realized how ridiculously tall the shelves were before this moment.

“Do you think this is even the right room?” Camdyn asks him, her voice low.

“I was hoping you’d know the answer to that,” he responds, matching his volume to hers.

Camdyn heaves a sigh and then takes in a breath as if to speak just as arcane energy snaps against Varian’s skin and Khadgar teleports into the room next to them. His jaw is tight, but he seems unharmed, arcane magic flying from his fingers to seal the doorway behind them that Varian hadn’t noticed until now.

“I managed to recalibrate the sentries,” he says. “I sent them after the Legion. It won’t hold them indefinitely, but with any luck it _will_ buy us enough time to find what we’re after.”

Khadgar steps deftly into the center of the circular room and as he raises a hand, the floor quakes beneath them, sending all three of them staggering.

“You can’t stop us, mage!” a voice that crawls across the back of Varian’s skull and tears at his skin roars, the sound reverberating as it echoes endlessly across the library. “Your former master opened the way to our victory! Karazhan will be ours!”

Khadgar’s face is grim in a way Varian has never seen before as he plants his feet in the center of the room again. “I’ve really _really_ had enough of that demon,” he mutters darkly. “The knowledge of the Pillars is here. We _must_ find the book.” He lifts a hand, his eyes glowing purple as a ball of arcane _light_ wafts from his fingers to the shelves.

The floor shakes almost rhythmically under them as the ball flits from book to book, stopping every so often. Eventually it hovers over a table, pulsing almost happily. “There!” Khadgar cries.

Varian beats Camdyn to the table by inches. The light floats over a book that’s so completely unremarkable in its entirety that he almost overlooks it. The brown leather of the cover isn’t much different in color from the leather of his gloves, but _Notable Antiquities of Ancient Azeroth_ is inscribed in flowing gilt letters across its face. He snatches it up and shoves it into his belt pouch.

“We’ve got it,” he says as he turns to Khadgar. “Let’s go!”

The flare of purple winks out behind Varian. “You two go back to Dalaran and take the book to Archmage Modera,” Khadgar says. “I’m going to try to bolster Karazhan’s defenses before I leave. I’ll meet you there.”

A portal shimmers into existence next to Camdyn’s hip. “Khadgar, wait!”

“Get the book to Modera,” Khadgar says warmly. “I promise I’ll be along shortly.”

Camdyn frowns at Khadgar, refusing to move, and he stands just as resolutely, clearly refusing to take the barrier down while they’re still in the library.

It’s only when Varian closes his fingers around Camdyn’s wrist that she follows him to the portal.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I am so sorry for the delay. I don’t at all intend for the next chapter to take this long. Not even close.
> 
> As an aside: the summoning ritual (for lack of a better term) for Alodi happens very differently here from the way it does in game. I wanted to make it feel more impactful and like it took more effort than Khadgar going “HEY, YOU!”.

Gleaming tile and white pillars shimmer into being around Camdyn, quickly resolving into the back corner of the Silver Enclave reserved for the exclusive use of incoming teleportations. The magic of Khadgar’s portal has long since subsided, but she can still feel its tendrils skittering across her skin, fizzling and sparking even under her armor. The tingling sensation stretches from her scalp to her toes, making her painfully hyperaware of every inch of her own skin.

Or maybe it isn't the magic. Maybe it's the fact that Varian is still next to her, and his large hand is still wrapped firmly around the wrist of her gauntlet. Camdyn's heart thumps in her ears, and she can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.

_He’s holding her hand._

It takes what feels like an obviously long moment before she can force her voice into working, and when she finally does, she desperately hopes he’ll mistake the hoarseness as only an effect of battle. “General,” she manages, turning her wrist a little in his grasp. But he isn’t watching her: his gaze is fixed on the open ceiling of the Enclave. She frowns before glancing up herself.

Her heart promptly plummets to her boots, embarrassment absolutely forgotten.

The sky is green and black and _sick_ -looking behind the purple arcane shield that wraps around the city. Fel portals swirl in the distance, black and open-mawed as they rain doomguards and fel lords upon the protective dome. Arcane lightning spears under the demons’ feet as they slam against the barrier and then spiders away as it reacts to their presence. Blasts of felfire explode against the shell and fel meteors hail down against it as the demons continue to directly assault it, trying to batter their way through.

She can’t feel it when Varian’s fingers tighten, but she does hear the squeak of his leather gloves against the plate around her wrist.

“We fought through Karazhan to get this book,” Varian says, and a muscle tics in the tight line of his jaw as he looks up at the demons clawing at the shield. “We need to find Modera and get it to her. _Now._ ”

He takes off at a dead run, and she follows, because there's nothing else she can do. Together, they race out of the Silver Enclave and turn toward the Violet Citadel. Rangers of the Silver Covenant line the street every few meters, the lines of their bodies taut with anticipation as they watch the skies, and she can see a handful of Kirin Tor mages dotting the intersections, magic weaving thick and heavy around them, but there are no citizens bustling, no true _life_. She’s never seen Dalaran so empty before, and she prays it continues to stay as empty.

Varian clears the steps up to the Citadel two and three at a time, his longer legs giving him an advantage, and he bursts through the doors before Camdyn’s even cleared the top of the stairs. When she finally skids through the massive doors, Modera is already frantically flipping through the book’s pages.

“Khadgar didn’t happen to mention if there was an index in this book, did he?” Modera mutters as she continues to rifle through the book. Her voice is calm, but her fingers tremble on the pages. “Topical codex? Anything?” Camdyn just blinks dumbly. She had expected Modera would have the answers, and her stomach flips uncomfortably at the realization that Modera is perhaps just as clueless as she is.

A glance back through the partially-closed doors shows her a spell-dome crawling thick with demons. The horrible possibility that it might fail is like ice in her blood.

Camdyn centers herself with a deep breath, warmth seeping up from deep in her core to her skin and radiating out as she taps into the wellspring of Light within herself. She catches brief sight of Varian as she frees her hammer from her baldric. The corners of his mouth are twisted down into the slightest of frowns, and his brow furrows, making new lines in the sweat and dirt on his face.

“There’s no need yet, General, but if the shield fails,” she says, indicating the direction of the bulk of Dalaran’s fighting forces, “they’re going to need my help.” 

Varian’s eyes narrow appraisingly before his gaze slides past her and over her shoulder. “Commendable attitude. But, I don’t think that’s going to be much of a problem,” he says with a lift of his chin in the same direction.

It’s her turn to frown in confusion before turning to face Dalaran proper.

A bright purple wash, brighter and more ethereal than the arcane shield over the city, is dissipating just beyond the borders of the dome. Beyond the fading wisps of magic, the sky is the familiar steely grey native to Deadwind Pass. The fel portals are gone.

Magic ripples over Camdyn’s skin in tingling waves, and she whips back around just as Khadgar pops into being next to the stairs leading to the Citadel’s upper mezzanine.

“Ah!” he says brightly with a smile aimed first at Varian and then at Camdyn. “You made it!”

“They did,” Modera says without looking up from the open book in her hand where the frantic pace of her page-turning has slowed considerably but hasn’t stopped. “I haven’t had much luck with the book yet, but I was also under a bit of duress when they handed it to me.”

Khadgar sheepishly rubs the back of his neck before stepping toward her. “My apologies, Modera,” he says. “It seems I underestimated the Legion’s thirst for fresh literature.”

Modera snorts a laugh without looking up. “Really, Khadgar. You should have known better. They haven’t conquered a new world in, what, forty years or so? Even the most interesting novel would feel stale after that long.”

“Well, if all they’re after is reading material, perhaps I could insist they take out a library card for my books.” Khadgar still sounds lighthearted, but there's a weary slump to his shoulders that he isn't bothering to hide. “ It would certainly save us all this trouble.”

“It might,” Modera’s voice is just as light as his, despite the frown pinching her brow as she turns another page. “I get the feeling they’re terrible about returning things they borrow in good condition, though.”

“In that case, consider me duly warned about loaning them my favorite books,” Khadgar says, the corner of his mouth quirking in a roguish grin. “They will have to call ahead to arrange a visit, though: I managed to shore up Karazhan’s defenses considerably before departing. It should keep the Legion at bay, at least for now. ”

Silence settles across the Citadel as Modera continues leafing through the small leather book. Khadgar bends his head next to hers, his finger reaching up to trace a line of text, and anticipation wells behind Camdyn’s ribs. She shifts in her boots, seeking a way to bleed some of the tension, and her greaves squeak with the shift of her weight.

She finally has a moment to _breathe_ since the travesty of the Broken Shore, and she almost regrets it. For the first time, she notices the itching of her scalp and the stiffness of her hair where demon ichor has dried, can feel the slight chafing of her skin against the neck of her gambeson where sweat has pooled, and there’s a dull throbbing high on her left cheekbone. Not for the first time, she’s grateful for the way the Light shores her up, or she’s sure she would ache in places she hadn’t known could ache.

She can only imagine how tired Varian must feel. He had been on the Shore longer than she had, had been running just as hard since, and didn’t have the benefit of the Light sustaining him to mitigate any of it. Almost of its own volition, her gaze slides to him. And her eyes catch his.

She can feel the heat flash through her belly, up her chest, and straight into her face. She jerks her eyes back to Khadgar and Modera where they stand huddled next to each other, still reading.

_Varian had been watching her._

Camdyn can hear her pulse rushing in her ears as she resolutely keeps her gaze locked on the two Archmages, waiting to feel the flush subside from her cheeks. She carefully resets her hammer back on her baldric, taking her time, using the methodical movements to continue to have an excuse to avoid looking in Varian’s direction.

“There’s nothing,” Modera declares, the sudden shattering of the silence making Camdyn start. Modera sounds angry but not defeated. Camdyn hopes it’s as good a sign as it feels, despite the circumstances.

Khadgar takes the book from Modera’s hand, closing it and tucking it neatly under his arm. “It’s always a frustrating thing when an author isn’t clear in his intent. Leaves too much up to interpretation for my liking. Perhaps we should just ask him what he meant.” He reaches up and claps a familiar hand on the back of Varian’s shoulder before starting toward the door. “Come with me, you two. Modera, would you ask the others to meet us in the Chamber of the Guardian?”

Camdyn waits at the doorway for Khadgar to pass first, and both habit and propriety dictate that she wait for Varian as well. When he reaches her however, he stops. She waits for him to gesture for her to continue ahead of him as he had at Karazhan, at the same time watching him carefully in case he's waiting for her to proceed as he had in Ulduar.

Instead, he intentionally catches her eye and nods to her - the slightest dip of his chin - before falling in next to her.

Embarrassment is a hot flush under her skin that rivals the feeling of the Light, leaving her wishing she could melt into the bricks of the staircase as they follow behind Khadgar to the center of Dalaran. She’s sure her cheeks are still pink when Khadgar leads them under a brick archway bordering the fountain park.

Or what should have been the fountain park. Frowning now, Camdyn tries to take in their surroundings as her right hand lifts toward the release catch on her baldric and her left drops just behind her hip.

The archway should have opened onto a golden fountain dedicated to those who had given their lives in Icecrown, surrounded on all sides by small, intimate stretches of grass and flowers. Instead, their little party steps into a brick room awash in purple light. Set carefully in Dalaran’s customary purple brick street, purple masonwork has built up a detailed octagonal dias in the center of the room, swirls and loops etched into it and lined in white glass tile in what Camdyn is sure must be arcane sigils.

“What is this place?” Camdyn breathes as she slowly moves toward the heart of the room, bathed in serene light from the half dozen fat white candles secured in the golden sconces adorning each column. It almost feels wrong to speak aloud, as if she would shatter the magic that had brought them here and created this place.

“This,” Khadgar answers in a chipper tone that belies the utter seriousness of his expression, “is the Chamber of the Guardian. The soul of the First Guardian is here. Hopefully,” he pulls the book from under his arm and waves it once, “he’ll have the answers we seek.”

Slowly, the remaining members of the Council of Six file in from each of the other archways leading into the room and form a ring around the dias in the room’s center. Camdyn finds herself shuffled off to the side next to Varian. Despite the constant frisson of awareness coursing under her skin, she has every intention of steadfastly ignoring his nearness. Until he folds his arms across his chest, and she realizes he’s so close she had heard each scale of his mail clink.

She silently curses her fair skin and hopes the purple light creates enough shadow to hide the blush.

And then she doesn’t have to worry because magic crawls and sparks over her skin, distracting her, as each member of the Council begins to chant. As they each outstretch a single hand toward the heart of the dias, arcane energy swirls thickly around their fingers, coalescing in their palms like a living thing before flying into the dias’s center and swirling into a writhing mass of purple smoke.

“I call forth the spirit of the first Guardian,” Khadgar’s voice rings out in Common, cutting across the hushed chanting from the rest of the Council.

White light flares, visually drowning out the haze of purple, before dying away and leaving the translucent image of a man in intricate robes in its wake.

The Council falls into silence.

“Greetings, Alodi,” Khadgar says. “I am Khadgar, an archmage of the Kir-”

“I know of you,” the image cuts him off. In diametric opposition to the spirit’s appearance, his voice isn’t ethereal, doesn’t echo intangibly off the brick. It also doesn’t exist solely within her head. It sounds as real and as solid as if she herself had spoken the words. “The young apprentice who refuses the mantle I first wore.” Camdyn can swear she sees Khadgar’s eyebrow twitch in an aborted arch. “What do you need of me?”

Khadgar holds the book out to Alodi. “The Burning Legion has returned.” To Camdyn’s surprise, Alodi doesn’t so much as flinch. “To attempt to stop them, we scoured Karazhan’s library for this book - _Notable Antiquities of Ancient Azeroth_.”

“We’re seeking the Pillars of Creation,” Modera says from across the circle, a sharpness in her voice Camdyn hasn’t heard before. “Your writing didn’t specify where to find them.”

“Of course not!” Alodi scoffs. “The Pillars represent primordial power. Even as Guardian, I dared not trifle with them.”

“Finding these artifacts is _crucial_ ,” Khadgar says. His shoulders are tense, and Camdyn can see the white edge to his knuckles where he still clutches the book. “The Pillars are the only thing that can seal the Legion’s portal in the Tomb of Sargeras.”

Alodi raises a hand to his forehead before sighing. For a spirit, he looks unaccountably _weary_. “Very well. My research led me to the Broken Isles. Though I never found their exact locations, I believe the Pillars lie in the hands of the peoples of that ancient land.”

Modera nods, her eyes sparking. “That gives us a place to start, at least. We will search every inch of the Broken Isles if need be.”

“You must make haste to find them,” Alodi says, and his image wavers, then steadies. “In the Legion’s hands, the Pillars of Creation could unleash untold devastation upon our world. They need no help in their crusade. Good luck.”

And then he’s gone in a flash of light as bright as the one he’d been called forth within.

Khadgar stands at the head of the dias, his jaw set and his fingers thoughtfully tracing the leather cover of Alodi’s book. After a moment, he slips the book into his large belt pouch and looks up, seeking Camdyn and Varian both, and there’s a dull throb of pain in Camdyn’s chest at the haunted look behind his eyes. “We’ll be moving Dalaran to the Broken Isles,” he says without a trace of his customary good humor, “which will take a great deal of both time and energy. The city is safe for now, and mages tasked with portal duty should be more than capable of getting you back to Stormwind. I’ll send word to you both once Dalaran is situated in its new location.”

Khadgar hasn’t even finished his instructions before the Council begins chanting again. Though the sound and the rhythm of the incantation are different from the spell that had summoned Alodi minutes ago, the motions and the tug of the arcane in the air are similar. Khadgar joins them, purple fire blooming in his eyes as he turns all of his attention to the monumental task of teleporting an entire city.

“I do believe we’ve been dismissed,” Varian murmurs. It takes Camdyn a moment to realize he’s speaking to her, and when she does, all she can feel is her heart hammering against her ribs.

“I would say that’s a fair assumption, General,” she finally murmurs back.

He huffs out a noise somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. “I’d say it’s time we report back to Stormwind. Someone needs to tell my son his promotion is happening sooner rather than later.” From the corner of her eye, she can see him look down toward her. “And I think,” Varian’s voice is so gentle and careful and _personal_ that it makes Camdyn’s mouth go dry, “that the new king of Stormwind would appreciate hearing from a paladin what’s befallen the Argent Crusade.”

The dull ache still twisting somewhere in her chest drives against her sternum. She pulls in a deep, bracing breath before finally turning to meet Varian’s gaze. There’s a solidarity there that blindsides her, a camaraderie. They had fought through the nightmare on the Broken Shore side-by-side. And while Tirion had been one of her heroes, he had been Varian’s _friend_. “It would be my honor,” she finally says with a bow of her head as she sets her fist to her shoulder in a warrior’s salute. Even to her own ear, her voice sounds level and measured, her nerves and driving awareness of Varian drowned out, even temporarily, by grief and duty.

Something flickers briefly across Varian’s face before he nods once in acknowledgement, slowly, and then gestures with an open palm toward the archway they’d entered through.

This time when he falls in step beside her, she manages not to blush.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've determined I need to quit saying things like "The next chapter shouldn't take so long!" or "The next chapter will be out a lot faster!" or anything at all even vaguely in that vein. I will, again, apologize for the (serious) delay and thank all of you for your patience and enthusiasm. I adore every single one of you.
> 
> This chapter wouldn't have been possible without the amazing editing and continued encouragement of Eleneri Penneth, the cheerleading of Cassie Gemini, ShadowPhoenixRider, Callane, and various wonderful anons on my tumblr, and the patience of my poor, beleaguered husband who was always willing to at least listen while I ranted about how difficult Camdyn and Varian were being.
> 
> Also, as a further aside, it's a lot harder than I thought to remove the player from the center of the universe in WoW's story. It's really a great testament to their quest design when you don't realize how many of the things you do are simply to keep the player involved until you're stepping back and trying to figure out what's really *necessary*.

Teleporting from Dalaran to Stormwind was never going to be commonplace for Camdyn, but she had certainly done it often enough to know what to expect: after one or two heartbeats, when everything is a claustrophobic tangle of impressions, the grand marble pillars of the Silver Enclave would give way to the dark paneled walls and stained gloss mottling of the room at the top of Stormwind’s mage tower; the gleaming tile would shimmer away to be replaced by darker, sturdier tile that more easily hid scorch marks, and the sunlight streaming in from the open ceiling would be replaced with muted lamplight in the fully enclosed room.

Which is why she stands dumbly for a moment once she’s passed through the portal, disoriented and confused, blinking at the room around her.

Everything’s _wrong_. The ceiling isn’t open, but is certainly high; the tile floor is marble and _white_ , and long, low wooden tables are placed at strategic locations around the edges of the room. Lamps burn brightly on every table, and sconces are placed every few feet on the walls.

Knots of people are congregated in the corners of the room, and she thinks she recognizes several prominent house sigils emblazoned on their robes. That combined with the rich blue barding trimmed in gold along the edge of the ceiling is what finally clicks everything into place.

They’re in the Petitioner’s Chamber of Stormwind Keep.

“Your Majesty!” a female voice calls from one of the groups crowded around a table, and a young woman in purple robes with dark hair begins to shoulder her way through the throng. Standing just ahead of her, Varian’s hand raises slightly in the woman’s direction.

“Lady Vanyst,” he says, his tone both abrupt and final, “I’m afraid this will have to wait until later. I have pressing military matters to deal with at present.”

It gives Camdyn the few moments she needs to fully regain her bearings, and then Varian turns to her with a raised eyebrow and a particular cant of his head she’s come to learn well over the years of her military service. It’s the look of a comrade asking if their partner is ready for the next move. Fighting down a flush of pride, she nods briefly in return - a perfunctory dip of her chin - and falls in next to him as he strides for the door.

She tries to keep a fraction of a step behind, giving him the deference owed to both a king and a general, but he keeps pace with her despite her efforts, and she can feel the gazes of the nobles burning against the nape of her neck as the two of them make their way across the Petitioner’s Chamber. Her cheeks burn, but she squares her shoulders, keeping her chin level with the floor the way her brother and Gaibrial had taught her, and keeps walking.

The feeling eases as they exit the Chamber and turn into the main entrance hall.

At the sight of the familiar blue and white floor tiles and the lines of saluting guards flanking the hall, a riot of emotions swirls behind her ribs, swelling in her chest.

Stormwind Keep has always been a touchstone in Camdyn’s memory.

She vividly recalls how she felt seeing it for the first time at eight years old - how its gleaming stone and sweeping entrance stairs and soaring turrets seemed straight out of a fairy tale and how it marked where _home_ was.

How she felt at twenty-three the first time she’d been chosen to report directly to King Varian - in that instance it had been about the Defias entrenchment in Westfall - and how nerves had made her practically vibrate in her boots every step up the hallway toward the throne room.

How she felt at twenty-five the first time she had been summoned specifically to the throne room in the aftermath of the Wrathgate, how the anger had still been clawing through her fresh and hot and how grateful and appreciative she was that her king felt as she did.

Now, at thirty-one, she walks shoulder-to-shoulder with the man who has been her king her whole life long out of the Petitioner’s Chamber and up the hallway toward the throne room.

This isn’t ever how she’d imagined a moment such as this. Some things are expected: the pride that she’s come so far in her career and her service to both the Light and the crown. The girlish giddiness that she has spent so long in Varian’s presence more intimately than she’d ever dared to hope once she was old enough to understand things such as class and status.

But all of it is tainted and overshadowed by the specters of sorrow and grief, heavy in her gut and weighing her steps. She doesn’t need to work to recall the numbers Highlord Tirion had taken with him before she herself had been deployed to the Shore. Or to subtract the scant handful who had escaped with her on the Skyfire. So many lost, and she has to deliver the casualty report.

She’s still struggling to put words to it all as the throne room slides into view at the top of the hall. Camdyn recognizes King Greymane and Lady Tyrande near the Lion’s Seat as they talk to Prince Anduin, while a female blood elf in red leathers leans a shoulder nonchalantly against the edge of the Lion’s Seat, listening. Archdruid Malfurion and another male night elf druid who seems vaguely familiar stand nearby, deep in conversation, both of their shoulders tense and brows knit. Queen Moira, the Prophet Velen, and King Mekkatorque are all close to hand, sometimes talking with each other, sometimes seeming to direct their insight toward Prince Anduin.

As Camdyn and Varian reach the end of the mosaic demarking where the hallway spills into the vast openness of the massive throne room, everything hangs thick and heavy and _still_ for the briefest of moments, and then the perfect stillness breaks.

“Father!” Anduin calls, his voice cutting across the muted, insistent conversation that had been a steady undercurrent of sound in the throne room. He’s already moving from the dais of the Lion’s Seat and coming straight for them. Every head turns in their direction as Varian moves to meet Anduin, arms reaching out and folding his son carefully against his chest.

Anduin is taller than Camdyn by a good several inches but shorter than his father by just as much, and Varian seems to be taking care that none of Anduin’s hair catches in the exposed scale of his armor as he presses a rough kiss to the top of his son’s head.

“We took the liberty of briefing him on the basics of the situation on the Shore,” King Greymane says from where he stands next to the Lion’s Seat.

Varian’s arms tighten around Anduin for the briefest of moments, and then they carefully step back from each other. They still stand within arms’ reach of each other, but their faces are harder. Shuttered.

They’re no longer men; they are kings.

“Good,” Varian says with a brief nod. “That saves some time.” He casts a searching look around the room before approaching the dais. The familiar druid nods at him as he passes, and Camdyn notices the barest of grins tugging at the corner of Varian’s mouth as he turns his head and nods back. The blood elf, too, dips her chin in acknowledgment at Varian as he steps up before the Seat.

“We’ve lost much today,” he says to both no one and everyone as he looks at the Lion’s Seat. His voice is low, deep with emotion. And then he turns, and his eyes find hers for the briefest of instants, and her chest clenches. The same weariness and exhaustion she’d seen on the Skyfire dims the blue of his eyes but doesn’t bow the massive breadth of his shoulders. It makes her heart ache for him all over again.

It fans the flames of her guilt all over again, too.

“The Broken Shore has claimed many of our best warriors,” he continues, louder and more certain. “But perhaps the hardest blow for us to bear is the number of paladins lost. In a war with demons, they were some of the best suited to help defend our world.” He shifts, settling his stance more firmly. “I’m not as familiar with the Argent Crusade as I’d like to be, but my understanding is that your order suffered devastating losses today.”

The tightness in Camdyn’s chest is only rivaled by the pitting of her stomach at the sudden realization that he’s addressing _her_. He’s addressing her in front of a room full of royalty and expecting her to answer as easily as if he’d passed her on the street and asked her how she was finding the weather. This isn’t at all what she’d prepared for, and her heart hammers in her throat as she takes a breath and licks her lips.

“Yes, General.” She offers a quick prayer of thanks to the Light that her voice sounds steadier than the rest of her feels. She shifts briefly in her boots, her armor clanking quietly as she tries to order her thoughts. “I’m not privy to the actual number of members of the Argent Crusade,” she finally says. “But I do know Highlord Tirion took almost sixty of our best with him to the Shore.” Camdyn forces a swallow past the tightness of her throat. “Only eight returned home. It is with deepest regret that I say Highlord Tirion,” her voice finally cracks at the edges, but she can’t be bothered to care, “was not among them.”

Prince Anduin’s jaw goes slack, and the pain is plain on his face as he looks at her. Varian puts a careful hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “I’m so sorry, Camdyn,” Anduin finally says, his own voice rough.

Tears sting at her eyes and her throat aches. “Thank you, your Highness,” she manages with a nod of deference.

“Are there enough of you left to take action?” Queen Moira asks, her rich brogue rolling through the small group.

Visions of maps flash across Camdyn’s mind, places where she’s heard of paladins reclaiming territory and holding ground. “There should be, your Majesty,” she says, shoving down the pain of loss. “There was a small group still stationed at Light’s Hope, and more at Hearthglen. Others are stationed throughout the Plaguelands, though as I said, I’m not sure exactly how many.”

“Who now leads your order in Tirion’s absence?” It’s Lady Tyrande this time.

Camdyn scrambles. She’s never been so elevated in rank to be privy to the inner workings of the Argent Crusade. She knows Tirion is - _was_ , her mind sharply and bitterly corrects - her Highlord. But the organizational structure apart from that has always been indirect and unclear.

They had never _needed_ leadership apart from Highlord Tirion.

“I don’t know, my lady,” she finally says, mentally cursing the meekness of the answer.

Varian’s mouth twists into a slight frown. “Do you know of anyone who would?”

“I know of some who _might_ , General,” she answers.

“Do you know where to find them?”

“Without knowing their orders, I can’t be certain, but Light’s Hope is a likely place to start.”

He gives a terse nod. “When our business here is concluded, I’ll ensure you’re sent via portal to Light’s Hope.” He turns to King Greymane. “Have you updated the war map?”

“Not yet. We were waiting for you and Jaina.”

The line of Varian’s mouth thins, and the deep breath he takes markedly lifts his chest before he releases it in a rush. “Jaina won’t be joining us,” he says flatly. He steps down from the dais and heads in the direction of the war room.

Camdyn still stands at the back of the throne room, watching as the other leaders of the Alliance follow behind him. She hasn’t been dismissed, but she isn’t sure if she should follow, either.

The choice is taken out of her hands as Varian rounds the framed edge of the map table. She can see him scanning the room, his frown deepening for a moment before his eyes find her. “Camdyn,” he calls, and her stomach flips. It shouldn’t be so thrilling to hear him say her name. Especially not now. Not when so much is still at stake. “Your input would be most helpful and appreciated.”

She nods sharply in response. “Of course, General,” she calls back. It’s only a few yards to the war room, but she uses every one of them to clamp down on her girlish fantasies. She isn’t here to fawn over her king – her _General_. She’s here to help him fight a war.

The map table isn’t so much a table as it is a tall, oaken box with a map inlaid in its top. The leaders of the Alliance stand shoulder-to-shoulder around its borders, but the familiar druid and the Prophet make room for her to slide between them.

The map itself is a light brown leather with continents burned into it. The kingdom of Stormwind is elaborately detailed and painted a rich blue, and the other capitals are marked simply with a colored dot and an embellished inscription of their name.  Small grey metal figurines sit on the map: small ship markers scattered around the Shore, and the lions head figurines Camdyn assumes are the King’s Army in various positions throughout Elwynn Forest, Duskwood, and Deadwind Pass. There are markers that look like gears, dwarven hammers, and night elven glaives littered across the map. There’s one figurine it takes her a moment to recognize: it’s curled and curved, with sharp lines reaching upward to frame a small dot suspended between them. Eventually she realizes it’s the symbol of the naaru.

Varian bends over the map and reaches to the figurines, removing a handful of the gunships and, after a fraction of a moment’s hesitation, several of the lions heads, and then slides some of the others around the map to new locations.

“These are our forces as they stand,” he says. He straightens and turns two lions’ heads over in his fingers. “Anduin, go fetch me the yellow ink and some blotting papers off the table in the corner.”

Anduin steps away and within moments is back, holding out a small inkpot and a stack of blotters. “Here, Father.”

“Thank you,” Varian murmurs as he takes them. He sets the blotting papers down on the map and then puts the two lions head markers on top of them. He unscrews the lid from the inkpot and then carefully tips the pot over the bases of the markers, rolling them in the golden ink that spills from it. When they’re coated enough to be visibly distinct from their brethren, he lifts them and gently blows the ink dry.

And then he’s holding them out to Camdyn, and all she can do is blink at him. “Sire?”

If she hadn’t been watching his face so intently, she would have missed the minute rise of his eyebrow and the barest twitch of the corner of his mouth. “General,” he corrects, not unkindly. “Take them.”

She holds out her palm, and he lays them carefully in it. They’re heavier than she expected. _Solid_.

“You said you knew where the paladins might be found. Consider those the markers of the Argent Crusade.”

She refuses to let nerves make her hand tremble as she sets one of the lions heads in the area of Light’s Hope and the other on top of Hearthglen.

Varian takes in the map again before raising his eyes to the group of them still pressed around the map table. “These are our forces. The Broken Shore is overrun, but all is not yet lost. We managed to retrieve information on items that can supposedly help us stop the Legion in its tracks. The Pillars of Creation are somewhere throughout the Broken Isles. We only have to find them.”

“I can start researching technology to help our gunships more easily and accurately navigate the storm wall surrounding Stormheim,” King Mekkatorque says, squinting at the map. “It should just be a matter of simple extrapolation from data we obtained from the Storm Peaks, but I may need to run a few experiments, just to be sure.”

“Ironforge can dispatch Wildhammers to Highmountain,” Queen Moira says. “I’ve heard tell of some tauren there who are a wee bit of a special breed. Might get on well with our lads.”

Varian moves a dwarven hammer from Ironforge and places it on an area of the Broken Isles.

“I know Val’Sharah well,” Archdruid Malfurion says, touching a part of the islands on the map. “I will travel there and try to make inroads with the druids who are its caretakers. Surely they will know more.”

Varian sets a night elven glaive on the position Archdruid Malfurion had indicated.

“I shall go with you,” Lady Tyrande says, frowning slightly. “I have much to ask of the Priestesses of Elune that they have never made mention of such an artifact to me.” Her eyes rove the map, and the silence stretches momentarily. “I have not ventured into Azsuna in many centuries,” she finally continues, “but I do know that a flight of blue dragons has made it their home. Perhaps Kalecgos would know more.”

“Kalecgos has joined the Council of Six in Dalaran,” Varian says. “And the Council’s full might and concentration is currently required to move Dalaran over the Broken Isles to provide a more centralized location from which to coordinate our offensive. I’ll be sure to bring them up to speed once Khadgar contacts me.”

Lady Tyrande nods once slowly. She brings a hand up to the edge of the map table, and her long fingers lay gracefully against the wood in the barest of touches. “Suramar,” there’s a slight roughness and catch in her voice as she speaks the word, and it makes Camdyn’s heart clench to hear it, “will present its own set of challenges. Ones we are not yet equipped to confront. It is currently beyond our reach.”

Varian raises an eyebrow and his mouth thins. “What _kind_ of challenges, Tyrande?”

Her hand falls away from the map table, and Camdyn sees her already straight spine tense. “Political challenges.” Lady Tyrande’s eyes flick in her direction, and Camdyn very resolutely refuses to meet her gaze or to shrink away from it. “I shall discuss them with you at a later time.”

“I’ll have my people get a lead on Sylvanas,” King Greymane says from where he stands next to Varian, his own eyes still fixed on the map. “We’ll discover what the traitorous banshee is planning and run her to ground.”

“We need to get a full grasp of the Horde’s losses.” Varian’s fingers trace over to Kalimdor and he taps absently on the mark labeled “Orgrimmar”. “All we know is they retreated. We need to find out if Sylvanas is even alive, let alone Vol’jin. He was up on that ridge, too.”

“I can reach Baine fairly quickly, Father,” Anduin says from Varian’s other side.

“Do that, Anduin. Let me know immediately when he responds. Velen, is there any information your people can give us we don’t already know about the Legion?”

The Prophet hesitates for a moment, his fingers turning against the haft of his staff, and then he dips his chin fractionally. “I do not believe so. I can, however, return to the Exodar and ensure that my people are fully equipped to aid you.”

Varian glances over the map one last time before standing straight. “Right. We have a plan. The sooner it’s enacted, the sooner we can be ready to move on the Broken Isles.”

Queen Moira and King Mekkatorque leave first, not even stopping to bid anyone farewell. King Greymane stalks off not long after, with the Prophet making his way from the room not far behind him. Malfurion and the familiar druid peel off into a corner of the room again, their voices hushed, while Lady Tyrande still looks over the map. Camdyn doesn’t recall seeing the blood elf leave, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

Before Camdyn has the time to feel out of place, as the crowd around the table disperses, Varian looks up from the map. Her heart stops as his eyes find hers. She forces a swallow around the giggle trying to bubble up in her throat. “Camdyn, you and I have one more mission to complete before your trip to Light’s Hope.”

Her mind spins; she can’t think of anything else left unaccounted for, but she nods sharply anyway. “Of course, General.”

Varian reaches over and gently squeezes Anduin’s shoulder. “You and I need to have a discussion later,” he murmurs.

Camdyn can see Anduin’s mouth twist in a frown strikingly like his father’s. “Of course, Father. I’ll be in my rooms writing that letter to Baine.”

It’s Varian’s turn to nod, and then he’s stalking around the edge of the map table in her direction. When he reaches her, he doesn’t stop, but he does shorten his stride enough that she can easily keep up. She expects him to lead the way back down the main hallway and out the front of the Keep.

Instead, he exits the War Room and turns right.

Toward the areas of the Keep meant for the royal family.

Her heart hammers behind her ribs, and she can feel heat crawling up her neck. She’s absolutely certain her cheeks are the color of bloodthistle, and she prays her breathing is more even than it feels.

He leads her through the large wooden doors and down a gently sloping, winding hallway. The ceiling is of a normal height as opposed to the sweeping grandeur of the rooms at the front of the Keep; the rooms meant to impress visitors and nobility alike. The tile floor is white with the same blue designs from the front hall, and while there are no windows, there are brightly lit sconces every few feet.

They pass several closed wooden doors of a completely nondescript nature before the hallway finally opens into a larder.

It’s all she can do to stand there and gape.

It’s more food than she’s seen in one place in her whole life. There are shelves upon shelves of preserved and dry goods and a large box-like item she doesn’t recognize crammed in a corner. In the middle of the room sits a large, standing-height, rough-hewn wooden table, and on the far wall is a swinging tavern-style door marking the entrance to what looks like the kitchen.

Varian strips off his gloves and lays them on the table and then turns to the shelves. Cautiously, Camdyn steps into the larder after him.

“You and I,” he says as he pulls down a loaf of bread from a shelf full of them, “haven’t eaten since this morning, if you even ate at all then. We’re approaching dinner.” He crosses to the box-like object and opens its front. As he reaches in, Camdyn can feel cold air creep its way across the floor. When he closes the box again, he’s holding a plate laden with some sort of sliced meat while a wheel of cheese balances precariously on the edge. “I know the Light sustains you to a degree,” he continues as he carefully sets the items on the table, “but you’re still only human.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he walks through the tavern doors. He’s only gone a few moments before he’s back with a cheese knife and pitcher in one hand and two cups in the other. He sets those on the table, too, and then takes a moment to fill the cups before holding one out to her.

“Thank you,” she says as she takes it, sounding far more demure than she knows she has any right to, trying desperately to quell the blush she knows is still bright on her cheeks. She waits until he’s lifted his own cup and then raises hers to her lips for a quick drink.

She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until the water crosses her tongue, and she downs almost half the cup in one go. When she lowers it again, Varian is already refilling his cup. He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, offering the pitcher in her direction. “Another?”

“Not yet,” she answers, “but thank you.”

He chugs his own cup and then reaches for the loaf of bread and meat. He tears off a chunk of the bread and then slides the loaf towards her. She carefully unstraps her gauntlets and sets them down before reaching for the loaf.

The bread is pillowy and soft and tears easily under her fingers. The crust is slightly sweet on her tongue, and she takes her time chewing it. She’s never had any bread as fine as this, and she focuses on that because she is alone, very starkly alone, in the intimate part of the castle with Varian Wrynn.

Her stomach is in absolute knots, and it takes more effort than it should to swallow down the bite of bread. Camdyn takes another drink of water to help steady her stomach and her nerves, and then she very pointedly looks up at him, making sure to catch his gaze.

“I owe you a proper apology for last night, General,” she says. She curses internally at the slight quaver in her voice and prays he writes it off as mere exhaustion. “I am so sorry for my actions. I shouldn’t have-” Her lips are dry, her mouth is a desert, and she very well may throw up, but she owes him this. She licks her lips and forces herself to continue. “I was inappropriate in my behavior toward you on the Skyfire. Please accept my apology.”

Varian, with bread still stuffed in his mouth, simply blinks at her. Slowly, his brows knit into a straight dark line and the corners of his mouth twist downward. His chewing, too, slows, but eventually he does swallow. Still frowning, he slowly shakes his head once.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” It isn’t a reprisal. It isn’t absolution. It’s simply a statement of fact. And she doesn’t know how to feel about that. Her throat tightens and her chest loosens, and she can’t quite tell if she’s blushing or if it’s just a surge of relief.

She wants to thank him. She wants to act like it never happened.

A weak “oh” is all she manages before picking up her cup again so she can hide behind it as she takes a drink.

When she sets her cup back down, Varian is still eating, this time picking bits off of the meat. “With any luck,” he says around a mouthful of what she knows now to be ham, “Khadgar will have Dalaran situated soon.”

“I,” she says, and then pauses, her brain racing to try to keep up with his sudden shift, “I don’t know how long it normally takes to transport a whole city, much less one of that size and across that distance. Do you?”

Varian reaches for the knife and slices two thin pieces of cheese off the wheel. “No,” he answers mildly, holding a slice of cheese out to her. “Magical arts aren’t exactly my area of expertise.”

The cheese is salty as she bites into it, and she reaches for the pitcher to finally refill her cup.

Camdyn’s skin shivers as she feels Varian’s gaze on her. She sets the pitcher back down and cuts a look back in his direction. There’s an intensity in his eyes that she hasn’t seen before, and her heart hammers against her ribs at the sight of it. Before she can pinpoint what exactly it is, he blinks and it’s gone.

“Take your time,” Varian says as he reaches for his own cup. “Eat and drink your fill. You’ve certainly earned it.”

Pride flashes through her, and she dips her chin in acknowledgement, hoping it hides her blush. “Thank you, Sire. But I think it’s fair to say we both have.”

He makes a general noise of agreement as he picks at the meat on the plate again. “Fair enough.”

The rest of their impromptu meal passes in relative silence until she finally reaches for her cup, draining the last of it, and then picks her gauntlets back up.

Varian puts the plate back in the strange box and the remains of the loaf back on the shelf. “Do you have everything you need?” he asks as she slides her left gauntlet on and begins to tighten the straps.

She can’t help the small chuckle that snorts out. “Everything but a bath,” she says before she can stop herself. As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she wishes she could melt into the floor. Her fingers freeze on her gauntlets and her eyes fly to his face.

He’s scratching at the growth of beard under his chin, and a sheepish smile is breaking across his face. “I think that makes us both of one mind,” he says. “It’s certainly the first thing _I_ intend to do once I get back in my own rooms.”

 She tries not to let her imagination fill those gaps and busies herself with the last straps of her gauntlets. “I’m ready, Sire.”

He nods and then gestures toward the openness of the hallway. “Let’s get you to Light’s Hope.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so excited for this chapter you, guys. I hope you love it as much as I do.
> 
> This would have been completely impossible if not for Eleneri Penneth‘s help, advice, beta work, and occasional handling of a particular Prince when he wouldn’t play ball with me. She’s truly completely indispensable and I can’t express my gratitude to her and for her enough.
> 
> An equally big thanks to my husband, who was willing to put up with so many nights where I was “working”, who listened to me whine between sprints, and who quietly let me gnash my teeth during them without interrupting my “sprint time”.

In the back corner of the Keep’s library, Varian watches the portal to Light’s Hope collapse in on itself and then dissipate into nothingness.

He could focus on the fact that, for the first time in nearly three days, he has a moment to _breathe_. There are no demons trying to kill him, no troops to protect, no political games to play.

But there is still too much that needs to be done to allow for simple, quiet contemplation.

He needs to compile a list of the casualties so that their families and spouses can be notified. He needs to get a full grasp on the loss of military hardware and if anything is at all recoverable from the Broken Shore. He needs to commission a number of new gunships. He needs to speak with the blacksmith about another set of pauldrons.

First, however, he needs and wants to talk to his son. And even before that, he desperately needs for his scalp and chin to stop itching quite so maddeningly.

“Trevor,” he says, turning to one of the guards who had followed at a respectful distance since he and Camdyn had left the kitchens, “tell Brighid I’d like a bath drawn.”

“Of course, Sire,” Trevor says with a sharp nod. He raises a fist to his chest and then is gone around the corner of the bookshelf.

“Gemma,” he says to the other, “see what you can do about getting full casualty reports for me from Mathias Shaw, Sky-Admiral Rogers, Grand Admiral Jes-Tereth, General Clay, and Recruiter Lee.”

“Sire,” Gemma says with a nod of her own. Instead of leaving, however, she simply stands at strict attention.

Varian fights the urge to rub his temples. “I need those lists urgently,” he says.

The plate of Gemma’s armor clinks faintly as she shifts her weight, visibly uneasy. “But that would mean leaving you unguarded, Sire.”

He can’t help the sigh that rushes out of him. “You’ve been well trained,” he says, keeping his voice as level as possible, “and I appreciate that. However, I’m in my own home, still armored and still armed. There are more guards not thirty meters away. Go fetch me the casualty reports.”

Gemma almost hesitates, he can see it in the shift of her grip on her pike, but she finally does raise a fist to her chest and then leave the library. He stalks out after her, making a mental note to have a talk with Hammond about exactly how well he’s training the guards and a second mental note to have Hammond reassign Gemma to somewhere other than the Keep.

Varian immediately turns to the left upon entering the throne room, thankful the door to the living quarters for the royal family keeps him far from sight of the main hallway. Lady Vanyst and whatever political machinations she needs his authorization for can wait.

He slips through the door and eases it closed behind him. Portraits of his ancestors hang along the right wall of the long, curved hallway. At the end nearest his own rooms, after the hallway has nearly doubled back on itself and climbed a good few degrees in slope, hang the portraits of his parents.

As he nears his room and passes under his father’s gaze, Varian can’t help but wonder what his father would think of his decision. What _Lothar_ would think. His father would probably argue that he was abdicating not the throne but his responsibility to his people. That, while Wrynns stand shoulder-to-shield on the front lines, it is still a king’s duty to care for his people first and foremost. But Lothar, Varian thinks, would understand that the best way Varian could serve his people now is to turn his full attention to defending them with everything he has and to make sure that attention is wholly undivided.

The decision is the right one; he can feel it in his bones. But _right_ doesn’t necessarily mean _easy_. He only hopes he can explain how he feels to Anduin.

He pushes open the door to his room to find the ever efficient Brighid has already been and gone, thanks to the faint scent of herbs wafting into his receiving room from the direction of the bedroom.

In his bedroom, a massive tub sits halfway between the foot of his bed and the hearth. Steam rises from the water in curling, looping billows, and a scattering of herbs dance in small eddies along the surface of the water.

Despite the temptation of such comfort so close at hand, Varian knows caretaking his weapons is tantamount. Standing next to the bed so as not to soil the sheets with anything that might still be clinging to his armor, Varian pulls a whetstone, blade oil, and cloth from the drawer of his night table.

It’s the work of only a few minutes to clean Shalamayne properly before setting it aside in its stand, and then he unceremoniously strips out of his armor, leaving it in a pile of leather and scale mail and plate by the bed. He’ll deal with cleaning it all later.

Varian reaches for the knot that secures the leather strip in his hair, only to find it stuck fast with Light only knows what. For the briefest instant, he considers chopping it all off. It would certainly be more efficient than wrestling with it, and he’s exhausted enough that efficiency bears even more weight than it normally would.

But finally the knot gives, and the leather comes loose in his fingers. Sweat and ichor and all manner of things in between have made his normally coarse hair stiff and crunchy. He grabs the bucket from the wash stand, bringing fistfuls of the cold water through his hair to rinse through some of the worst of it before finally stepping into the blessed heat of the tub.

He doesn’t even try to suppress the groan of satisfaction as he sinks into the water, the heat immediately soaking into sore, overworked muscles that he hasn’t allowed to ache before now. Despite the undeniably strong urge to simply relax and relish the respite, Varian knows he doesn’t have the time to luxuriate. He grabs the cloth and the bar of soap from the silver tray standing next to the tub and lathers the cloth with a quick, efficient scrub.

The act of bathing is just as perfunctory and just as efficient as his maintenance of Shalamayne. His hair, however, takes three washes before it begins to feel clean, and he almost regrets not asking for a second tub to rinse off in again afterwards. Almost.

Faint traces of steam are still wisping over the surface of the water when he climbs from the tub and towels off, and he’s already heading for the wash basin as he wraps the towel around his waist.

His leather shaving kit sits next to his wash basin, and a quick, reflexive flick of his fingers over its closure has the kit rolling open. He dunks his shaving soap in the wash basin, lathering it between his palms, and only realizes a fraction of an instant too late that he’s underestimated how much he needs; the only other time in his life that he had worn a beard was during the beginning of his time in the Ring, and shaving that off had occurred in much different circumstances than these. It’s a quick and easy fix to properly lather the rest of his scruff of a beard, and thankfully, after only three days, there isn’t too much additional growth to markedly slow the speed of his shave.

With a splash of water to rinse away the last of the stray suds and the press to his face of a soft, clean towel that smells faintly of sandalwood, the last traces of the Broken Shore are washed away.

He tosses the towel onto the bed as he crosses his room for his armoire. He already knows what he’s looking for as he reaches for one of the golden lion’s heads handles. With the gentlest tug of his fingers, the blue enamel door swings open, the gold trim catching and reflecting the sunlight and scattering it across the wall. The clothes he chooses are plain despite their clearly impeccable craftsmanship: plain brown pants, a plain white shirt with a simple lacing collar, and his favorite brown boots. Clothes a father wears when speaking to his son, not clothes a king wears to speak to his heir.

It’s the work of only a few minutes to dress, brush his hair, and scrape it into a ponytail secured with a fresh strip of leather.

This time when he passes under the portrait of his father, Varian’s shoulders square a bit of their own accord.

Anduin’s rooms are only a few meters from his own, and it’s only a handful of steps from the edge of the painting of his father to his son’s door.

Despite the strength of his convictions, uncertainty blooms into a discomfort that skitters under his skin. He doesn’t know if he has the right words to finally reach the son he loves but with whom he finds himself too often at odds when it comes to their people. He doesn’t know if he ever will.

But he knows he _must_.

So he knocks on Anduin’s door.

The silence stretches in the empty hallway, and then finally the door swings open. Anduin stands on the other side, a welcoming smile tilting the corners of his lips, and warmth that looks almost like relief in his eyes. He’s shed his robe of estate, but he still wears the formal pants and silk shirt he normally wears beneath it. “Father,” he says. “Come in.”

It takes everything in Varian not to reach out and brush his fingers through his son’s hair. He pushes the urge down, certain Anduin wouldn’t appreciate it at seventeen years old, and instead lays a hand on Anduin’s shoulder. For the first time since returning from the Broken Shore, he can actually feel the warmth of his son’s skin, can fully appreciate the breadth and solidity of his shoulder under his palm without being muffled by countless layers of leather and cloth, can ground himself to the _realness_ that Anduin is and represents and be grateful for it. Varian gives his shoulder a warm, careful squeeze before letting his hand fall away. “Gladly,” he says.

Anduin’s receiving room, like his own, is utilitarian and functional. Across from the door, Anduin’s writing desk is situated under a large window, and on the wall to the right of the door sit two leather wingback chairs with a small table between them.

Several pages already lined with Anduin’s neat, tight script are stacked to one side of the writing desk.

“I hadn’t known Baine was on the Broken Shore, too, Father” Anduin says with a glance at the stack of parchment as he sinks back into his desk chair, “but Genn assures me he saw him there, and saw him retreating off the ridge under his own power.” He rubs at his eyes, looking as tired as Varian feels. “I can’t imagine what he’s going through. What it was like.”

Varian closes the door behind himself. For a second, he smells blood and charred flesh and fel-scorched ground. He has to clear his throat before he can respond. “If you ask him, he’ll tell you it’s hell.”

There’s the start of a frown playing about Anduin’s brow and the corner of his mouth. “And what will you tell me, Father?”

“The truth, Anduin,” he says plainly. “The Broken Shore isn’t just another battle. It isn’t even a war. It’s a last stand. _Our_ last stand. The Burning Legion has returned to our world, and they mean to destroy us utterly. Everything we know, everything we love. We cannot allow that to happen. _I_ _will not_ allow that to happen.”

Anduin’s brow draws into a single, heavy line. “Father,” he says, a perilous crack at the edge of his voice, “what are you saying?”

He watches his son for a moment before answering, taking in the way the reddish fade of sunset spilling in through the window over the desk seems to catch in his hair, making it brighter and _golden_ , seeing so much of himself in the line of Anduin’s jaw and so much of Tiffin in the spark in his eyes.

He thought he had been as prepared as possible to have this conversation. He’d had faith the right words would come to him when he needed them. But now, seeing the man his son has become, seeing the reflections of himself and his wife in his son’s face, knowing the burden he intends to lay on his son’s shoulders, his tongue feels leaden in his mouth.

He is a tactician by nature, weighing outcomes and variables and finding ways to maximize efficiency while minimizing casualty and collateral damage. Once he decides on a plan of action, he follows it through until and unless there is reason to readjust his strategy. On the Broken Shore, he had considered every potentiality, every course of action he could possibly take when and if, by the Light’s grace, he made it back alive.

His abdication is for the best. He knows it in his gut. He takes a breath and commits to his plan.

“I am saying,” Varian says, “that I think Azeroth and the Alliance are best served if I am able to devote my full attentions to defeating the Legion, and that I intend to do everything in my power to ensure that.” The words feel so heavy on his lips, but he forces himself to speak them. “This is not a choice I make lightly, my son.” He looks at his son and hates the look of dread on Anduin’s face, hates the dawning dread that darkens his son’s eyes. “I must abdicate the throne of Stormwind to you so that I can lead the armies of the Alliance while knowing Stormwind’s people are safe.”

Anduin’s brow tightens and then relaxes, and his frown eases, turning from concerned to bemused. “So _that’s_ why you insisted Camdyn address you as General,” he says with a slow shake of his head. “I wondered, but I assumed it was because you were fresh from the fight. I’ve never actually seen you on campaign before, and I didn’t know…” Anduin’s voice trails off, and he rubs a hand across his forehead and then through his hair. When he finally lifts his eyes again, the look on his face twists behind Varian’s ribs. He looks so _lost_. “Is…Is it really that bad?”

Varian closes his eyes. Flashes of green and black dance behind his eyelids again, and Gul’dan’s rictus grin of triumph as the fel reaver rises screaming into the sky, reaching for the gunship. He shoves the image away before opening his eyes again. “The things I saw there I hope you never see,” he says. “And I will never let them touch you so long as I draw breath.” He crosses the room to his son and crouches before him, putting a careful hand on Anduin’s knee. “I know what I’m asking of you, but our people, _our world_ , are best served if I’m doing what I do best, which is _fight_. But in order to do that, I need you, Anduin, to do what you do best. Care for our people.”

Anduin shakes his head twice, three times. “It’s too sudden, Father.” His voice is tight, and he looks like he’s been struck. “Father, I don’t know if I can do this.”

Seeing his son’s panic makes him ache in ways Varian doesn’t expect. As Anduin’s father, all Varian has ever wanted is for his son to be happy and fulfilled. If Anduin had been anyone other than who had been born to be, Varian would have encouraged him in chasing the priesthood with everything he has.

But being a prince isn’t a life that is chosen.

“Anduin,” Varian murmurs as gently as he can, “it was never _not_ going to be sudden.”

Anduin forces a swallow, and there’s a bit of a wild edge in his eyes. “I’d hoped to have more time.”

Varian knows all too well what it feels like to be thrust into such a position long before he was ready to receive it, knows the fear and the panic. He’s only grateful his own son isn’t receiving the crown under circumstances such as his own. “If I could have given that to you,” he says, “I would have. You know that.”

For the first time since the conversation started, Anduin finally _looks_ at him, and Varian sees the set of his shoulder slump ever so slightly. “They’ll compare me to you.”

Varian knows Anduin isn’t talking about their people. Their people love him, and he’ll grow into earning their respect and their trust as he himself had. “The House of Nobles will be a problem,” he admits. “They’ll think you’re young and untested. Weak. Malleable.” Varian stands and pulls Anduin up out of his chair before taking him by the shoulders. He makes sure to catch his son’s gaze, hoping Anduin feels the faith he has in him. “ _They’re wrong_.”

Resignation finally cuts through the edge of disquiet still lurking at the edge of Anduin’s eyes. “Well,” he says mildly, “they’ll be right about the young part.”

Varian pulls Anduin into a hard hug then, needing to feel his son close, trying to offer support and reassurance. “ _Prove. Them. Wrong_ ,” he murmurs into Anduin’s hair. He presses a rough kiss there before he can think the better of it and tries to ignore that he’s trying to bolster himself every bit much as Anduin.

After a long moment, Anduin sighs against Varian’s shoulder, and some of the tension goes out of his back. He pushes away and Varian lets him. He looks calmer, more certain.

More like a _king_.

“You’re not trying to hand me both crowns, are you?” he asks shrewdly.

Varian barks out a laugh. “High King is by election, so I couldn’t give that to you even if I wanted to. Stormwind, though, is your birthright. I’ll be sure to be here for your coronation.”

He sees the spark of shock cross Anduin’s face before resolving into acceptance. “When?”

There’s no straightforward answer, and they both know it. “As soon as possible. There’s much to be done.”

Anduin nods, and then his brow tightens again. “Father?”

There’s something in his tone that makes Varian’s heart clench and dread curl loosely in his stomach. “Yes, son?”

“I used to be angry with you.” The dread unfurls and dissipates. It’s an old wound between them, one they both always knew about but never acknowledged, and it aches to finally hear Anduin say in the way scars ache when pulled wrong. “I know it was never your fault, what Onyxia did, and I understand why you kept me so close all the years after. But I hated it.”

A surge of emotion makes his throat tight. He curls a careful hand around the side of Anduin’s neck and rubs his thumb brusquely across his son’s cheek. “I couldn’t do anything less.”

“I know,” Anduin says with a small smile as Varian’s hand falls away.

Varian returns the smile with one of his own, then lifts his chin in the direction of the stack of parchment. “I should let you finish your letter to Baine. I need to go have a declaration of abdication drafted.”

Anduin nods once, more loosely than before, and taps his fingers restlessly against his desktop for a moment. “Do you want to look the letter over before I send it?”

“No,” Varian says. “Diplomacy is one of your gifts, son. I trust your abilities.”

Anduin flushes a little with pride, his shoulders shifting a bit under his shirt as his back straightens. “I’ll let you know when it’s sent, then.”

“Please do.” Varian takes the luxury of putting a supportive hand on his son’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you to finish it.”

Anduin’s eyes are bright and sure. “Good luck, Father,” he says.

Varian can’t help the rueful chuckle it elicits. “Light knows I’ll need it.” Outside the window, the last of the sunset is beginning to purple into twilight, casting shadows across Anduin’s face, and Varian thinks he sees the man his son can become. It’s bittersweet. “Do you remember what I used to tell you about being a king when you were small.”

Anduin smiles a little lopsidedly. “I could recite it in my sleep by the time I was four. ‘A king is the last thing standing between the world and his people.’”

Time unwinds before Varian’s eyes, and Anduin is tiny and brilliantly blond, blue eyes serious as he repeats the words in a childish treble. He squeezes Anduin’s shoulder warmly. “You remember well. That will never change for you. You will stand the gap between Stormwind’s people and her enemies.” He pauses, because suddenly words are harder than they should be. “But I will be standing the gap between the enemy and you, and woe to those who would cross me.”

“Father-“ Anduin starts, his brow furrowed again as Varian lowers his hand.

“I love you, son,” Varian says gently. It never feels as if he says it enough. Not plainly, at least.

Anduin blinks for a moment, and then his frown eases. “I love you, too,” he finally says.

Varian starts to turn to the door, and Anduin settles at his desk again, his clear blue eyes darkening in concentration as he reads what’s already been penned. This is the right course. Not the easiest, but the wisest, and the most right of anything he could have done. Varian has spent a majority of Anduin’s seventeen years trying to teach him how to reign while impressing upon him both the gravity of his station and the selflessness required to fulfill it properly. At least, unlike his own ascension, Anduin isn’t coming to the title while grieving the loss of his father. He isn’t going to be left, lost and floundering, to learn the finer points of ruling that only experience can teach. He isn’t going to be abandoned to the self-serving House of Nobles and their political machinations. He isn’t going to be left _alone_.

Tension still thrums under Varian’s skin, but the disquiet that has clawed at the back of his mind since the gunships had crashed off of the Broken Shore is finally calmed, if not wholly placated.

The decision to abdicate in favor of his son isn’t easy. There _will_ be political upheaval and unrest. The fact that he intends to be on the front lines will likely be used as leverage among some of the more self-serving nobility, and a spate of political infighting is something Stormwind, and the Alliance as a whole, can’t afford to suffer with the Legion on their doorstep.

As he reaches for the handle, he’s already mentally composing the way he intends to explain his intentions to the House of Nobles. He doesn’t need their permission, but their acquiescence will at least make the process more bearable.

He isn’t as surprised as he perhaps should be to find Valeera and Broll in the hallway. Valeera leans against the wall, watching Anduin’s door imperiously, one of her eyebrows arched. Broll stands next to her, arms folded across his chest, seemingly at ease. Valeera has the grace to wait for Varian to close the door behind himself before she speaks.

“Never thought you were a quitter, Lo’Gosh,” she says, her tone oddly neutral.

“Hush, child,” Broll gently chastises before Varian can answer, “he isn’t _quitting_. He’s slowing down in his old age.”

Valeera hums a noise that sounds vaguely like acceptance, and Varian watches as she eyes him up and down. “Now that you mention it,” she says, an impish grin flashing across her face as she reaches out a hand to pat at his stomach, “he _is_ getting soft around the middle.”

Varian snorts and moves to swat her hand away, but she’s already got her hands on her hips, defiant and brazen. “Eavesdropping doesn’t become either of you,” he says mildly with a quick look up and down the corridor to see if any servants are about. The topic of his conversation with Anduin is too sensitive to become public knowledge before he’s even had a chance to draft the article of abdication.

“We were merely looking for you,” Broll says with a relaxed shrug. “Unfortunately, Valeera tripped over a rough flagstone and fell into your son’s door ear first. You might want to have the floor examined for repairs.” Broll raises one eyebrow. “If you’re truly to leave such splendor for the farming life, I’m sure you already have a parcel of land outside Goldshire?”

Varian wants to swear. Agitation claws behind his ribs, hot under his skin and leaving him feeling unsettled and off balance. While he would have told them both about his intentions, he had wanted to do it in his own time when he’d at least had a moment to make the beginnings of peace with the idea of giving up the only life he’s ever really known. Having the choice ripped from him, even by them, leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

If there is one bright spot in the moment, however, it’s the fact that their presence would have kept away any gossip-prone servants, and for that much, at least, he’s grateful. “Northshire, actually,” he finally retorts, knowing his voice is darker than he intends but also not caring enough to lighten his tone, “so there’s no use trying to sell me that rundown hut outside Darnassus you call a home.”

Broll grins wryly. “That isn’t for sale in any event unless you’re willing to also purchase the lake I have in Deadwind Pass.”

It’s the same kind of gallows humor that they’ve slung at each other for years, inside slave pens and palaces alike, and in war camps on mystic mountain peaks. It’s familiar and easy, and it’s not quite a soothing balm on the raw edges of his nerves still sharp under his skin, but it is a start.

The world may burn tomorrow, but these two will walk into the flames with him.

The emotions that have stayed coiled in Varian’s chest for hours now loosen a little, and his next breath comes somewhat easier than any he’s taken since climbing onto the Skyfire during the Alliance’s retreat.

“ _There_ he is,” Valeera murmurs, laying her hand on his shoulder. “Grumpypants and I were worried about you.”

Varian casts a glance back towards Anduin’s door, and then tips his head toward the top of the hallway, motioning for Valeera and Broll to follow him out into the gardens. His own rooms certainly would have been more private, but he wants to minimize the chance of Anduin doing any eavesdropping of his own. He isn’t ready for his son to hear the full horrors of what he experienced.

He isn’t sure if he’s ready for anyone to hear it.

As the three of them step into the open air of the courtyard, the last vestiges of twilight are holding fast, but it’s clear the lamplighters have been hard at work: small, bright dots of flame dance out past the lake along the edges of the city, and just over the Keep’s battlements, Varian can see the light from the Cathedral District rising bright and incandescent into the darkening night. Stars are only just beginning to bloom in the vault of the sky, and he tips his head back, watching as the constellations begin take form.

For a handful of minutes, long enough for several constellations to fully coalesce from the blooming darkness, there’s nothing but the gentle breath of the breeze and the sound of his own pulse in his ears.

"Varian." The deep rumble of Broll's voice finally comes from somewhere on his left.

The words stick in his throat, as if they don’t want to be spoken. It’s difficult to admit and harder to remember clearly. There had been chaos and terror and the sinking, horrible surety that he would have to sacrifice himself, and then a brief, brilliant flare of holy light.

“I almost didn’t make it back,” he murmurs.

He hears Valeera’s leathers creak, and he can almost hear her frown before she even speaks. “You’ve almost died lots of times, Lo’Gosh.”

“This was different,” he says with a shake of his head. “It was,” he wants to explain what happened, wants desperately for Valeera to understand, but for once words fail him and all he’s left with is the uneasy churning in his gut, “different. Gul'dan almost had us.”

“You lived,” Broll remarks mildly, and Varian hears the shift of his tunic as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Were you lucky or foolish?”

This conversation is as old as their friendship, and there’s a small, comforting familiarity to it. Varian huffs a low, bitter laugh and puts both hands on the railing, leaning his weight against the stone. “Are they always so different?”

“Luck is when foolishness pays off.”

“Then I suppose I was lucky. Genn and one of Tirion’s paladins refused to let me make myself a martyr.”

“Greymane I know,” Valeera says, “but which paladin? The girl? The one who came back with you, who you sent on to Light's Hope?" She leans one hip against the railing and peers up at him with luminescent green eyes that see far, _far_ too much for Varian's comfort. "I've seen her before somewhere,” she murmurs, her brow furrowing.

"Valeera." Broll frowns down at her. "Lo'Gosh has more pressing concerns at the moment."

It's a simple truth, and it gnaws at the brief sense of comfort that Varian's had since his talk with Anduin. He lets the silence stretch again for a moment. The darkness overhead extends its reach, its long fingers blending with the fading light past the horizon over the edge of the sea.

Valeera, typically, only lets the quiet go on for so long. “Lo'Gosh?”

Varian knows he could describe the horrors in painstakingly accurate detail. The pure hopeless hell of the Broken Shore, of Gul'dan's infinite army, is something he'll be seeing in his nightmares for the rest of his life. “It's a bloodbath," he finally says, flatly.

"We've seen those before," Valeera says. Varian knows she's trying to be supportive in her dismissal, but it rubs against the rawness of it all in ways he doesn't expect. Agitation blooms in his gut and coils tight behind his ribs, and he has to take a measured breath before he can answer her.

"I thought so, too," he says. "But this.... we haven't seen this. There's no end to it. Just death."

"Trust you to look at it seriously," she mutters. The shoulder she knocks into his bicep seems playful but he knows it isn't; it's Valeera's way of apologizing. She seems unfazed when he doesn't move with her.

Broll’s hand, warm and callused and reassuring, closes over his shoulder for a moment. "You survived the Broken Shore, Lo'Gosh. Don't let its aftermath destroy you. You aren't alone. The child and I are ever at your back," Broll says evenly.

"I'm counting on it." He can feel the edge in his answering grin as he raises his face into the biting wind that blows in off the harbor, bringing the smell of salt and tar. "But I admit that I fear where I may lead you."

"Does it matter?"

"What the old man is trying to say, Lo'Gosh, is that we'll follow you into hell. Wouldn't be the first time, probably won't be the last," Valeera says sharply, and it's enough to tear Varian's eyes away from the riot of stars. Her arms are folded across her chest, her weight slung to one hip, and she's glaring at him. "But that's in five minutes, or tomorrow, or a week from now, and right now, I want to knife you for being stubborn."

"Child, really."

"Don't you _really_ me, Broll Bearmantle,” she snaps. “You know as well as I do that a blade's the only thing that would make Lo'Gosh, High King of Brooders, spill his guts." She snorts lightly. "And even then, it's not a sure thing." For a second, Varian's not sure if she's actually serious about knifing him, but it's her finger that she jabs into the solid muscle over his ribs and not her favorite dagger. The finger probably hurts more.

"I know what happened on the Broken Shore, Lo'Gosh," she says, chin high and back straight. "I was here when a whole heap of survivors started coming into the keep. I know how to read bodies, and I know how to read eyes, and all of those people shouted a story plain as daylight without having to say a word. I know that hell is waiting for us out there. But those people had healers and priests and anchorites to tend them, and your eyes are telling me the same story, except that you're picking up more burdens as if they're bandages." Her finger jabs sharply enough into his chest that he knows it will leave a bruise. "Let. Us. Help. You."

Broll's hand has gone oddly firm against his shoulder, and it would be easy to stay angry, to let his pride stay wounded and let his agitation stew. But, as difficult as it is, he's never been a man who has chosen to do what was easy. Especially when it wasn't what was right.

Releasing the hurt and the anger leaves him feeling somehow more exhausted than before, and a sigh wells up in his chest before he can think to stop it. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. He knows it isn't enough, but it's all he has.

“Stop making me yell at you," Valeera mutters, something that looks like relief shading the edges of her features. "Being hopeless isn’t exactly your style."

“Taking the fight to the enemy, however, is.” Broll passes a hand over the nearest rosebush, and several new buds shiver and grow and swell before delicately unfurling into full blooms under his gentle druidry. “Your decision is wise, but are you truly ready to turn over your kingdom to Anduin?”

A knot of emotion lodges in Varian’s throat, and he turns his attention to the vault of stars again as he struggles to marshal his reaction. There were many things he considered on the retreat from the Broken Shore before deciding his abdication was the best route for the fate of the world. Whether he was emotionally ready for passing the crown to his son hadn’t been among them.

Past the battlements, on the edge of the lake, the lamps are sparkling brilliantly, their reflections dancing eerily on the surface of the water, almost ethereal in their delicacy. Overhead, the constellations have taken full shape and form, bright pinpricks of light against the inky blackness. Tiffin's favorite, Freya's Sash, sits almost directly above the Keep this time of year, signaling the beginning of the harvest season.

Varian takes a small comfort in it, that something she held so dear feels as if it's watching down on him. It's almost as if a piece of her is with him, and he hopes desperately that she would approve of his choices regarding their son.

“Whether I’m ready or not isn’t important," he finally says. "What’s best for Stormwind – for Azeroth – is. This is for the best." Varian sighs. "At least I’ll be able to witness his coronation. That is.... so much more than I ever expected.”

Broll hums, and his hand comes up to Varian’s shoulder again, fingers squeezing warmly before falling away. "Even in autumn, there's new life stirring."

Valeera makes an indelicate sound. "Less druidic platitudes, more practical plans, grumpypants."

Broll gives an amused chuckle. “Then I propose we all eat a good dinner before deciding anything of import. No war is won on an empty stomach.”

“That’s more like it,” Valeera mutters, an edge of a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth, even as she folds her arms stubbornly across her chest as she turns toward him. “You aren’t going to make us drag you to dinner by force, are you?”

The stars are reflected in the surface of the lake, a gentle breeze breaking its smooth surface and making them sparkle on the water. “No,” he says with a brief shake of his head. “But go on without me. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Hush, child,” Broll says as Valeera opens her mouth to protest. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and gently but firmly leads her from the garden. Valeera stops at the archway leading to the throne room and turns back to him, frowning and watching him closely, but allows Broll to shepherd her toward the door to the living quarters without much complaint.

Varian stands in the quiet, grass green under his feet and the delicate scent of roses just barely discernible under the salt of the Great Sea and the acridness of tar from the harbor carried in on the breeze. He tips his head up, and Freya’s Sash twinkles down on him as he counts its stars, drawing it in his mind’s eye.

He looks out over the city again. Ahead of him, the ever-burning forge at the heart of the Dwarven District makes shimmering waves of heat rise over the brown rooftops. It’s a good, honest heat, clean and warm and _pure_ even as the air bends under its influence.

Past the Dwarven District and glowing even brighter than its forge, the Cathedral District is a beacon of golden light, and Varian has to bite back a smile at how apt that truly feels in a way he’s not sure he’s ever fully appreciated before now.

And, just for a moment, the part of him always prowling under his skin settles, and he allows himself to find peace in the stillness.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a minute since the last chapter. I can only apologize. But I’m here now, finally, with this. I hope you enjoy it. I hope you enjoy finally getting to see glimpses of who *Camdyn* truly is apart from being stuck reacting to her own (in her opinion) mortifying behavior. If you’re still here, *thank you*.
> 
> I’ve taken a few liberties with the setup outside of Light’s Hope. For the purposes of this story, it truly is a small military training yard, complete with a couple of modest barracks flanking the gates.
> 
> Camdyn was also meant to have retrieved Ashbringer by the time this chapter closed. Given her track record, I don’t know why I was so surprised when she didn’t stick to the plan.
> 
> This wouldn’t have been at all possible without Eleneri‘s editing or my husband‘s patience with my teeth-gnashing.

Camdyn dutifully follows Varian from the kitchens, fully expecting him to lead her to the portion of the Petitioner’s Chamber reserved for inbound travel. As they pass through the massive doors and into the throne room, she immediately begins to head toward the main hallway, only to be brought up short by a strong, inexorable pull in the opposite direction.

Startled, Camdyn looks down. Varian’s fingers are wrapped around her elbow.

Varian's fingers _are wrapped around her elbow_. Confusion - well, it has to be confusion, doesn't it? Certainly _nothing_ else. She can't feel anything else when her king is touching her - makes her stomach flutter. "General?" She hopes she doesn't squeak. She really doesn't want to squeak.

She manages to not squeak as she continues to follow him across the massive breadth of the throne room. When they cross in front of the Lion’s Seat, he lifts his chin in the direction of one of the guards stationed there but doesn’t break stride.

“Raquel." The guard somehow snaps to even stricter attention. “Fetch Farran. I need him in the library immediately.”

“Yes, sire,” she answers with a nod of her head before stepping down from the dais.

The closer they draw to the open doors leading to the gardens, the easier it is to notice the smell of the sea rolling in on the breeze. The air is thick with salt and the edge of a tang from metal smelting in the Dwarven Quarter, and Camdyn wishes she could stop just to breathe in the smell of fresh air. The smell of _home_. Her throat tightens unexpectedly, but she shoves it down. There will be time to rest - to be _homesick_ \- later.

She hopes.

Varian glances at her as they step into the gardens. “I’d prefer to avoid both interruptions and explanations,” he says simply as they continue around the garden’s perimeter. “The library is better for a portal in that case. Quieter than the Petitioner's Chamber.”

Camdyn bites down the edge of a smile and keeps her gaze carefully forward. “Unless Professor Jones is present,” she says.

If she didn’t know better, she would have thought Varian’s step hesitates for a fraction of a moment. She could almost swear his shoulders roll, though, and he chuckles quietly. “Neither Professor Jones nor his _devoted students_ will be a problem."

This time it's Camdyn's step that hesitates, and what's becoming an omnipresent desire to melt into the floor tiles wells up again. For the briefest, barest moment, she had allowed herself to forget he was the _king. Of course_ Professor Jones won't be an issue. She can feel his eyes on her as she shoves the irritation and embarrassment aside and lengthens her next stride so that her steps are once again in sync with his.

Her prayers that he won't ask her to speak go completely unanswered.

"You don't seem yourself," he says as they round the edge of the garden. His tone is far from intimate, but it also isn't quite regal. "What troubles you?"

She refuses to let her step falter this time. Her tongue, though, is like lead in her mouth and the swallow she forces to alleviate it feels dry and prickles her throat. "I think any who claim to feel like themselves in such dark times as these is a liar, your Majesty." It isn't the complete truth, but it isn't a total lie, either.

Camdyn's heart stops in her chest as a flicker of something indiscernible passes over Varian's expression, and then he hums a quiet sound of assent, making relief crash over her in a palpable wave that leaves her fingertips tingling.

"You are far from wrong," he says. "These are truly darker times than we've ever faced. But I refuse to believe these are times without hope."

"No dark time is ever without hope, Sire, so long as even a single light remains." They had been Everett's words when she was small, after their father had fallen, when it had been only the two of them left in a world that seemed determined to break their spirits. She had clung to them then and they had carried her through countless battles since. The ghost of a smile playing at the edge of Varian's mouth eases any lingering doubts about the propriety of sharing them now, with him.

"While true," he says as they reach the doors to the library, "I'll continue to pray that there is more than a single light in this darkness." He ushers her through the doors with an upturned palm, and everything else, even him, momentarily slips away.

For as many years as she can remember, Camdyn has loved the Keep’s library. It’s a treasure trove of information and stories unrivaled by anything save the Explorer’s League Library in Ironforge. The times she has been allowed access have been few and far between, but they have always been breathtaking. Despite the circumstances, now is no different.

She doesn't even have to glance around to find any spines she doesn't recognize; one sits directly at her eye-level on the shelf before her. It takes a massive force of effort not to reach out and run her fingers against it. Instead, she begins what she hopes is a surreptitious scan for any other new finds, building a running mental catalog of how many she's never seen and estimating how much time she'll need to request for her next visit to study them all.

Her calculations are interrupted by a slight addition of weight on her elbow. She looks down to find Varian's fingers closed around it again. His eyes sparkle a bit with amusement at her expense, and her throat restricts while damnable heat creeps up her neck. "Farran is almost here," Varian says. 

Determined footfalls echo through the open door, and she can almost curse herself for having been so distracted as to have missed them. Varian's hand falls away from her elbow, and she's finally able to quell the spreading blush.

Moments later, a lanky man with dark hair dressed in robes of Stormwind blue stands in the doorway. "Your Majesty," he says with a brief bow in Varian's direction.

"We need a portal, Farran," Varian responds with a gesture around the edge of the bookshelf. Camdyn leads the way with Farran following close behind and Varian bringing up the rear.

As they step around the bookcase, Farran's long stride quickens and he moves even farther back than Camdyn expects, nearly racing for the back corner of the library. Once they've reached the back row of shelves, he glances around and then nods to himself, seemingly satisfied. The sleeves of his robe hang low over his hands, and he shoves them violently up over his elbows before wiggling his fingers and then allowing the arcane power to build and swirl between his palms.

“Where do you want to go?” He doesn't even look at her as he asks, his gaze instead flicking between the wisps rolling over his knuckles and the table nearest her.

“Light’s Hope," Camdyn answers. "The graveyard behind the chapel.” Farran looks at her then, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. She can’t help but give a half-hearted shrug. “It’ll be deserted this time of night. I figure it’s safer that way.”

Farran makes an amused snort. “A paladin worried about ‘ _safe_ ’,” he mutters. “You’re lucky my brother has business dealings with the Crusade. I’ve gone with him a time or two to Light’s Hope and know the graveyard.”

The magic flows from his fingers into the rough yard of space between her hip and the table, spiraling and then coalescing before her into a portal. The eye of the portal widens, and what had once only been the smallest pinprick of light grows and expands until she can see Light’s Hope wavering in the portal’s epicenter. A heavy warmth she hadn’t expected settles in her gut at the sight of it.

She scrambles in her belt pouch for her coin purse, finally finding it stuck beneath her inkpot with its drawstring tangled around her miniature pestle. It takes a moment of fumbling to free the drawstring, but finally she does, and then withdraws two silver pieces and holds them out to Farran.

Instead, he stares at them in consternation for a moment before starting and then hesitantly reaching for them, frowning the whole time. The momentary worry that it wasn’t a large enough tip flashes through her; two silvers is the customary rate, but he is a mage in service to the king. She hesitates and fingers the drawstring of her coin purse again. Farran says nothing, however, still frowning at the silvers in his palm.

Taking it as an indication that he doesn’t expect more, Camdyn tucks her coin purse back into her belt pouch and secures the latch. As she straightens, she catches sight of Varian from the corner of her eye. He, too, is frowning in the direction of Farran's hand, but there’s no darkness under the set of his brow.

The realization that she might have caused some grave offense to her king makes her heart stutter in her chest before common sense gets the better of her. If Varian had been offended, he would be sure she knew it.

As she turns to face him fully, she can see that the corners of his mouth are beginning to quirk upwards ever so slightly.

She raises a fist to her shoulder and nods sharply, fighting the vestiges of adrenaline that are still leaving her shaky and threatening to cause a blush. “General,” she says.

His face softens and his head inclines in her direction. “Light’s speed, Camdyn.”

She turns back to the portal, and Farran, too, nods to her before turning and bowing to Varian and then exiting the library.

Camdyn refuses the urge to cast a final look in Varian's direction before stepping through the portal.

The first thing to hit her, even before she's fully crossed, is the smell. The incense, sweet mustiness of parchment and warm earthiness of leather immediately give way to the cleanly sharp, herbaceous scent of pine. Though the Plaguelands lie just beyond the walls of Light's Hope, the pungent stench of rot never dares to so much as waft in on the breeze.

The sun is red and brilliant as it sinks down behind the mountains, giving her more than enough light to see plainly as she takes a breath of the clean fresh air and then takes off at a run around the edge of the graveyard to the front of the cathedral. As she races through the gate near the front of the chapel that marks the border of the graveyard, she can see the front training yard.

It's empty and silent.

Camdyn's heart is in her mouth. She isn't sure what she expected, but it certainly wasn't this. The barracks are dark and silent. Craftsman Wilhelm's forge sits cold and dark, wholly untended, and Duke Zverenhoff and Quartermaster Breechlock are missing from their tent. Even Fiona's caravan and Khaelyn Steelwing are gone.

Light's Hope looks abandoned.

Her pulse thumps in her ears in time with the impact of her boots on the ground as she runs up the steps of the chapel. She shoulders bodily through the massive doors, and the tension in her finally loosens as Lord Tyrosus's deep voice reaches her through the widening gap. He sounds clipped and terse, but it isn't panic; it's authoritative command, and years of training have her responding to it instinctively, her nerves settling and her next breath a little deeper.

As the doors open enough for Camdyn to slip through, she sees Lord Tyrosus and Lord Shadowbreaker huddled over a small table where there once was a pulpit. Brother Barthalomew stands close by, the bones of his feet almost indiscernible from the white tile of the floor. He spots her first, but doesn't alert Tyrosus and Shadowbreaker, only inclining his head in her direction and shifting position just enough to allow her to sidle between his body and the table.

She closes the door firmly and whirls on her heel to face the front of the chapel again. "Lord Tyrosus!" she calls as she takes the first step down the aisle. It's a struggle to keep her stride purposeful and not simply run the rest of the way to him. She feels like she's done nothing but run for two days straight.

His head jerks up from the table at the sound of her voice, frowning. "Camdyn," he answers, sounding slightly astonished, his face softening as his eyes light with recognition. She slows to a stop as she reaches the table, nodding briefly both to Brother Barthalomew and Lord Shadowbreaker. She has only enough time to process that a map lays stretched out between them across the tabletop and that it isn't a map of Azeroth as a whole before a heavy gauntleted hand grips her shoulder almost paternally. "We heard what happened on the Broken Shore from the survivors of Highlord Fordring's excursion. I've also heard we have you to thank for having any of them back at all."

She shakes her head once firmly. "That's not true. And it isn't also what's most important right now. Highlord Tirion-"

"I know," Lord Tyrosus says, his voice warm but final. The corners of his mouth set and his hand falls away from her shoulder. "The Legion devastated us. I still can't believe it." Under the gruff authority, his voice is raw at the edges. It's too close to her own feelings, and a tight lump forms in her throat. "But we have to go back. Tirion had the Ashbringer with him."

Grief rips through her again as she realizes that the map on the table must be the map of the Broken Shore. "That blade cannot fall into the Legion's hands." He looks up at her again, his eyes sharp and appraising. It takes every bit of her training to simply stand still under the weight of that gaze. "You're the only paladin from the battle on the Broken Shore in any condition to lead us to the place where Tirion fell. The Ashbringer could be anywhere on that infernal island by now, but starting there is as good a place as any. Get some food, get your wounds seen to, and then come find me. We leave within the hour."

She nods sharply. "Yes, sir. I also bring word from King Varian. He requests an accounting of our numbers and to know who leads us after Tirion's loss."

Tyrosus makes a noise deep in his chest, and his mouth twists. "I'll be sure to send the answer to Stormwind as soon as I know it myself."

Tyrosus's answer makes her blood run cold with the realization that she has no idea where Everett is. A lump forms in her throat, and she swallows past it. "Where is everyone else, sir?" Despite her efforts, her voice is still rough, edging on raw.

"We pulled them back to keep them safe," he says softly. "Brother Barthalomew?"

Brother Bartholomew clears his throat, an affectation Camdyn thinks he must have carried over from life, before shuffling over to the left-hand windows of the chapel. He digs the spike on the end of his axe between two specific joins of floor tile. With a single, sharp twist of his wrists, a portion of the floor measuring at least four meters by seven meters rumbles and then scrapes back into itself, revealing a stone staircase beneath.

Shock and confusion leave her staring dumbly from the steps to Brother Barthalomew to Lord Tyrosus and back again. Nothing she had ever seen or heard had prepared her for the possibility of a hidden room under Light's Hope. Somehow, of all the things she has experienced in the last two days, this feels the most ludicrous, and she isn't sure how to respond to it.

"It's a hidden sanctum," Lord Shadowbreaker says gently as his hand comes up on her shoulder. "Kept apart and secret for times of great need."

If Camdyn ever had a true brother, more of a peer and less of a parent, it would be Grayson Shadowbreaker. Everett raised her, Gaibrial trained her, but Grayson had been her mentor in the order proper. He had led her through her early adventures and more than once helped her mend her wounded pride as surely as Everett had mended her skinned knees. She can't feel Grayson's hand on her shoulder through all the layers of leather and plate, the but weight of it is as massive and devastating to her nerves as the first blow of a siegebreaker to a dam, and it makes her throat burn and her thighs quiver with the mere effort of standing.

"Everett's downstairs," Grayson murmurs, voice low and soothing. "He's been.... hoping to see you again. Go get cleaned up, and I'll fetch you for Tyrosus in an hour."

Hearing her brother's name is all it takes to send Camdyn barreling down the stairs.

She manages to make the hard left just fine, though she takes the next hard right a bit wider, and when she nearly vaults the final small set of steps at the bottom, she almost slams directly into the paladin standing guard at the foot of the stairs on the left. He looks vaguely familiar, but she can't place him and doesn't really care to try.

The room she's stumbled into is split into two, each side a mirror of the other in shape and structure. The side to her right houses a rectangular table long enough for a dozen paladins to sit shoulder-to-shoulder on each of the long sides and take a meal, and three large curved alcoves. The alcove at its head has a map of the Broken Isles pinned to the wall, a second has no fewer than a half dozen massive bookcases reaching from floor to ceiling set from stones into the wall, and the third has a projection of Azeroth slowly spinning over a metal pedestal of what appears to be Titan make.

On her left, she sees an identical table, two library alcoves, and what she thinks are weapon stands in the alcove at the table's head.

Before her, the hallway seems to stretch for miles, passing through at least one more set of rooms before dropping off at the end into what appears to be a chapel that almost rivals the Cathedral of Light in size.

There's a continual low buzz of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clatter of weaponry and armor, and the smell of stew permeates the air. There are too many people to pick out her brother, and she doesn't have the time or the patience to go the length of what feels like an underground city to find him.

She whirls around to face the paladin at the foot of the stairs. "Everett Morris," she says to him, the words pressing their way out of her mouth. "Have you seen him?"

There's the sound of running feet behind her before the man she'd asked can answer. Hands clamp onto her shoulders, turn her around, and then she's pulled into a hug so tight that the joins of her armor actually squeak in protest.

"By the Light, baby sister," Everett murmurs into her hair, "I was so damned worried."

The adrenaline surge of being grabbed is immediately negated by the weight and warmth of her brother's face pressed to her temple. Her knees almost buckle, but his arms tighten around her and support her, giving her the strength to stand. She buries her face in his shoulder, her nose pressing into the side of his neck. The comforting, familiar smell of his shaving soap and the sound of his voice and the feeling of his skin is all too much. It's the last of anything her frayed nerves can take, and the tears begin to fall in earnest.

It's slow and silent at first, little more than barely ragged breathing and a slow trickle from her cheek to his shoulder, but it builds in her like a tidal wave, the grief and the anguish and the fear and the _loss_ pulling on her soul until it's too heavy to bear, and she's openly sobbing in his arms, chest heaving with the effort just to breathe.

She cries until she's sure both the collar of her gambeson and the shoulder of his shirt are soaked through, until all that's left are dry hiccups, but she still can't stop.

"Ev. It was terrible. Just terrible." The words are little more than a rasp of sound, and they don't do justice to the horrors she witnessed and to the grief she carries. But they're the only words she has.

He doesn't ask her to elaborate. He doesn't even say anything. He responds the same way he did when she had nightmares as a child: he shushes her and makes to smooth his hand through her hair. His touch is soothing and familiar, and she eventually lets herself be calmed by it, cheek still pressed to his shoulder.

Callused thumbs stroke carefully against her cheeks as he turns her head so he can really look at her, and she winces at the pain in his grey eyes, at the pinched skin between his eyebrows as he spots the gash on her temple. Guilt that she hadn’t thought to heal it herself before she saw him gnaws at her gut even as he sighs and hovers a hand over her temple. Light warms her skin, coursing into her until it doesn't hurt anymore. Until the cut on her forehead is healed and her heart doesn't ache, until she just feels tired and spent instead of ravaged and raw.

"Come sit down and let me look at you," Everett says, leading her away from the foot of the stairs and to a nearby table. He directs her onto the bench, and she dutifully sits. "Is there anything else?" he asks as he sits next to her and pulls her left hand into his lap where he begins unbuckling the straps of her gauntlet.

A small part of her is equally amused and annoyed that he's undressing her as he did when she was a toddler, but the larger part of her is too tired to protest and is grateful for the moment to let someone else care for her. Grateful for a moment where she doesn't have to make any decisions. "No," she says as Everett pulls the gauntlet off and turns her hand over in his own, inspecting it to his satisfaction before placing her hand back in her own lap and reaching for her right one. "That was the only injury I had left. Promise."

He huffs a tiny noise as he works the straps of her right gauntlet. "They've got bathing stations set up down the hall and behind the privacy screens on the left," he says, almost under his breath as he pulls her gauntlet off and begins squinting at her fingers. He finally places it back in her lap, seemingly satisfied. "You go get cleaned up," he says as he stands from the bench and then bends to kiss her forehead, "and I'll see about getting you some fresh clothes and some food."

Camdyn's hand shoots out of its own accord, latching on to his, desperate for the touch and the contact. "I can't." Everett's eyebrows shoot up, and he stands stock still, waiting for her to finish. The reality of what she needs to do is too heavy to voice, weighing down her chest. But she forces a deep breath and exhales, ignoring how tremulous it sounds. "I have to go back to the Shore."

Everett's face looks like she might as well have reached up and slapped him. She's almost positive he even rocks back in his heels, just a fraction. "What?"

"Lord Tyrosus needs me to lead him to-" There's a catch in her throat. The swallow she forces past it makes her belly jump. "- to where the Ashbringer fell."

The storm clears from behind Everett's eyes, and he crouches in front of her. He places his free hand - the one she isn't clutching between both of her own - on her knee. "I understand," he says. It's little more than a murmur, but it's enough. They're both paladins, both _soldiers_ , and they both know orders are orders. The knowledge still makes the lines around her brother's eyes deepen as he frowns, looks somehow older and grayer and more tired than he had a moment ago. "How long before you leave?"

"An hour."

"Do you need me to come? I can-"

" _No_!" The thought of it makes her heart stop. Felfire and brimstone flash across her subconscious, and she's almost sure she can smell burning flesh and the stench of death. Her nose stings as tears threaten again. "I wouldn't be able to do my job."

"An hour is enough time to think ab-"

"No."

Everett watches her for a moment, his expression slowly fading from concern into paternal affection. He pats her knee as he stands, her armor ringing slightly under his palm, and there's an impish smile lurking in the corners of his mouth as he looks down at her. "Well, then. The Crusade may still need you, but you smell like a demon's outhouse. And an hour is more than enough time for a bath."

Before Camdyn can so much as splutter in indignation, Everett tugs her to her feet. She barely has enough time to grab her gauntlets off the table before he drags her back to the main walkway where they turn away from the staircase leading back up into the chapel. They cross under a massive stone arch and step into what look like training rooms. A row of privacy screens flanks the left side of the walkway, while medical cots sit in neat rows on the right.

The Crusade had, apparently, been _expecting_ more survivors from the Shore. Three dozen cots sit waiting, but only a half dozen are in use.

For a moment, hope lightens her chest. Eight survivors of Tirion's regiment had been on the gunship with her. She counts the cots again to be sure, her pulse sounding in her own ears. Perhaps two of them hadn't been as badly wounded as it had seemed. And then she sees it: at the end of the line, nearest the cathedral, two cots swathed in white, the bodies on them nothing but unmoving lumps. Her stomach wrenches, and her fingers grip Everett's.

"It's not fair," she spits.

Everett squeezes her hand gently as they continue down the walkway. "War never is, buttercup," he murmurs. The name he's called her by since he took her in is a slap in the face and makes his words even more stark.

"I know." It scrapes out of her throat, barely even sound, but loud enough if the second squeeze of his fingers is any indication.

He finally leads her around a privacy screen. There's a simple metal tub filled with clean, steaming water and an equally simple washstand. A soft-looking, clean towel and wash rag sit folded on a three-legged wooden stool, and a plain vanity sits in the far corner, a comb and brush laying neatly on its wooden top. Everett finally releases her hand, and his broad shoulders droop a little. It terrifies her in ways she can't describe. For as long as she can remember, her big brother has been a stoic rock for her to build her own foundation upon.

Camdyn never knew their mother, and she barely remembers their father. But she does remember the terrible days after their father's death, when she had been nothing more than a little girl convinced she had been left alone and abandoned, absolutely certain that the gods were enacting some terrible vendetta against her personally. And then Everett had come for her, and even though he cried for their father just as she did, he never seemed to _wear_ his grief.

But now, seeing the weight of yet another war he's living to experience pressing down on him, a primal, visceral anger rises up in Camdyn, bubbling under her skin.

"It isn't _right_ ," she seethes. Her tears are hot as they run down her cheeks, and this time her jaw aches from the force of clenching her teeth together. Her gauntlets clatter to the floor by her feet, and her hands crank into fists, her fingernails biting into her palms.

Everett's back is still to her, but she watches as his shoulders rise and then fall with a slow, deep breath before he turns around.

There's lightning in his eyes, but there are also lines on his face that she can't recall ever seeing before. He looks _weary_ , and it breaks her as surely as the subtle slump of his shoulders does. "War isn't ever fair," he says again, his voice low and measured and so _worn_. Camdyn chokes down her rage, trying to temper and quiet it so as not to add another burden to his load. But her tears just won't stop.

He cups her chin in his left hand and raises his right to her face, wiping her cheeks with his fingertips. "It isn't ever fair," he repeats gently. "And most times it isn't even understandable. You know that. You've lived through enough of them. I've always prayed you'd never live through another."

She swallows down a hiccup, and her hands slowly uncurl at her sides, relaxing against her brother's touch. "This isn't even a war, Ev," she finally whispers. The thought of giving it full voice is still too much, but she needs to speak the words all the same. "It's a massacre. We lost so many people, _good_ people, and I had to watch so many of them die. I saw things that will haunt my nightmares forever." Pain twists his face, and she reaches up to wrap a hand around his wrist where he still holds her chin. "Gul'dan means to utterly destroy us. We have to stop him. I just don't know _how_."

Everett sighs and then lets his hands fall away from her face. His gaze slides past her shoulder, growing distant as he sets his hands on his hips. "You drive them back, one battle at a time," he finally says. "It's all you can do. Make them earn every inch of ground they try to take, and then refuse to let them have it."

It isn't the answer she'd hoped for, but at least it's a truthful one. Everett reaches up again to chafe the pad of his thumb across her cheek, presses a kiss to her forehead, and then steps toward the border of the privacy screen. "I'll see about finding you a clean gambeson and underpadding," he says. "Does your armor need any repairs?"

"No," she answers, trying to force away the rawness of her throat. "It should be fine."

Everett's eyebrow arches imperiously. "'Should be' or 'is'?"

"Is," she corrects. "It _is_ fine."

He nods once in response. "I'll leave the gambeson and padding out here." And then he's gone.

The silence eats at her when he leaves. There are still others - the hum of conversation carries over the privacy screens - but for the first time since the Broken Shore, she is both alone and sober. It would be easy to succumb to the quiet, to let her fears and her anger and her pain fill the void. But she had never been drawn to what was _easy_. So instead, she carefully releases her hammer from its baldric and sets it aside before pointedly focusing on each step of her armor doffing, on each strap of leather and the give of each hinge closure.

Taking her hair down is no easy feat, stuck fast as it is with ichor and sweat and grime, but she carefully pulls each ruined hairpin free and sets it gently aside.

When she finally sinks into the steaming water, she mentally recites the names of her brothers and sisters who didn't make it home, and then says a prayer of thanks naming those who did. She turns herself over to the fragment of Light she carries within herself. Anger slowly gives way once again to grief, and then that, too, gradually eases.

In war, she knows, the hurt and the anguish will come in waves. The trick is to avoid drowning in them.

When she can finally take a breath that doesn't leave her lungs feeling constricted, she picks up the wash rag and the soap. She takes her time, letting herself feel the scuff of cloth against her skin, the slick slide of lather, focusing on every sensation. Washing her hair gives her time to focus on the feel of her fingertips against her scalp, the weight of the suds in her hair, and the feeling of that weight lifting as she scrubs.

Three washes later, and satisfied that not a speck of ichor remains in her hair, Camdyn finally rises from the tub. The water is cool as she steps over the lip of the tub and reaches for the towel, but it feels good against her skin in the slightly chill air of the chapel. It's a biting contrast to the heat of armor she's been trapped in for almost two days straight, and yet another way to scrub the experience of the Broken Shore from her skin.

Sticking her head around the edge of the privacy screen, she sees Everett has been true to his word. A small stack of clothing - topped by a new pair of underwear and a new breastband - sits neatly folded well within her reach.

She could rush through getting dressed and rearmored, but the solitude, the peaceful _quiet_ are a balm to her nerves. So she stretches the moment out as long as possible. In nothing more than her underthings, she moves to the vanity and combs through the length of her hair. A quick check of the vanity's drawers turns up a pile of leather strips. She uses one to tie her hair back into a serviceable ponytail. She'll probably have to braid it closer to her head before battle, she knows, but for now, this will do.

After that, with no further distractions to focus on, it's a matter of a few minutes to get into her fresh underpadding and her armor.

As Camdyn exits the makeshift bathing chamber, a passing squire yanks the clump of soiled linens from her arms. She's left blinking after him for a moment, wondering if she should chase him down and say something, but then she sees him stop at each of the bathing chambers and collecting each of their linens as well.

Shrugging it off, she simply stands in the walkway, taking in the fingers of warmth seeping into her soul, wondering if the Light within herself is calling back to the Light swelling within this holy place. Her brother's hand curls around the back of her neck over her gorget.

"It's almost time," Everett murmurs.

Camdyn can't help the wince. She doesn't want to go back, but she knows she has to, so she steels her resolve and turns to her big brother. He doesn't look quite as weary or old as he did before, and it mends a crack in her spirit she doesn't want to think about. "I love you, Ev." She isn't sure if she ever tells him enough.

Everett smiles a little, something small and wistful, and then his arms are folding around her and bringing her in to his chest. "I love you, too, buttercup."


End file.
